The Window to a Horizon
by audenwood
Summary: In light of Hannibal Lecter's unprecedented escape from his confinement, Frederick and Will's fragile little world is violently shaken. They knew they were walking a precarious tightrope. It was only a matter of time before they lost their balance. (Sequel to "The Sound of the Rising Sun")


**NOTE: THIS IS THE SECOND INSTALLMENT OF MY WILL GRAHAM/FREDERICK CHILTON (WILLTON) CANON DIVERGENT SERIES THAT I BEGAN ON AO3, "DAWN HAS BROKEN (BUT WE HAVE NOT)". THE FIRST INSTALLMENT CAN BE FOUND ON THIS FF DOT NET PROFILE OR ON AO3 (AUDENWOOD).**

 **ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON ARCHIVEOFOUROWN. PLEASE READ THERE IF POSSIBLE:** **http(:)/(www). archive(of)(our)(own).org(/works/** **4045234**

"Because these wings are no longer wings to fly

But merely vans to beat the air

The air which is now thoroughly small and dry

Smaller and dryer than the will

Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death

Pray for us now and at the hour of our death."

—T.S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday"

 **I. Overture**

Traditionally, a bullet shot marks both the beginning and the end.

Boom—go!

Boom—dead!

Jame Gumb dies at the hands of a brown-eyed lamb, fingers surprisingly free of any tremors on the gun. A young girl is saved. A prisoner escapes. The nation is now in uproar.

Newspapers wake their groggy writers up at ungodly hours. Get the scoop. Get the next big headline. What are you waiting for? Go! Tabloid reporters and news channel employees sleep outside the houses of murky-eyed agents and their harried spouses and children and are chased away by the police in the morning. Deadlines are set in place and threats are made. You better get that damn story before _they_ get it. You won't want to see what happens if you don't.

Mothers fret and spend the entire day worrying about their children. Fathers look over their shoulder while getting on the train for work. People on the streets try not to look at anyone in the eye for too long. You never know what kind of people might be lurking. There are so many psychos out there, the lady at the grocery store checkout remarks. Can't be too careful, not with what you see on the news, the grandpa bemoans while he shakes his head and locks all three of the locks on his door.

Heard about that young agent? Fresh out of the academy? Caught that Buffalo Bill guy? Just a little baby—saved the daughter of that big important woman? I know—I can't believe it either! What's the world coming to? Little kids steal newspapers and don't understand everything the tiny print is trying to shout into their minds but they pore over the headlining articles and feel the shivers crawl down rapidly to their toes as they read about murders and Bad Men by the light of a weak flashlight past their bedtime, their parents down the hall watching the news in the living room and shaking their heads. People reminisce and think about Francis Dolarhyde. Man, remember that guy? The "Tooth Fairy", the "Red Dragon", and now "Buffalo Bill"—how'd they come up with shit names like that when I just like to call 'em sickos? Questions of different natures are raised all around. How do people go wrong like that? I don't know, honey, sometimes bad people are just born but there's nothing we can do but be careful.

There's so much fucking paperwork to fill out. Pissed off FBI agents leave work in the evening and shower and look at their reflections in the mirror and feel something knotting up within them. Failure reeks something rotten. A list is made. Surviving victims have got to be contacted, right boss? What if Lecter wants to finish his work? Nobody wants to give a damn interview and nobody is allowed to give a damn interview but everybody wants to snag a damn interview. Can't comment on that, sorry. Just one second—? Look, I have a licensed gun, man. If only they would just—

The entire world won't stop screaming.

But at least the lambs have.

 **II.** **Ambience**

Streaks of sunlight swim past the curtains of a closed icy window, bright and exuberant on a snowy November morning. Wolf Trap is eerily silent save for the breathing of several dogs and the rustling of leaves outside in the barely there breeze and the soft breaths of two sleeping men dressed in loose white shirts lying together underneath a thick brown comforter. Their limbs are entwined, placed in familiar crooks and little niches that are almost perfectly formed in hollowness and in softness for the shape of another human's body parts. An arm wrapped lazily around a waist. A cheek tucked into a shoulder. Fingers twisted into loose knots in the curls of the other. A hand placed on a chest. Calves atop calves. Toes between toes.

One man, the shorter of the two and the one who is rather fond of sleeping with his fingers in the hair of his lover, caressing the gentle trellises until his joints go still or erratic with the coming of sleep, stirs. His fingers twitch and he leans away from the little space in his lover's neck that he likes to shower in kisses before bed and bury himself in when his eyelids grow heavy. He inhales, long and whole, taking in the smell of the room—they just cleaned yesterday and he can still detect the chemicals of the cleaning supplies he used. He can also smell the almost woodland scent that always clings to the man he has been sleeping next to for a year.

A year.

Something lights up in his memory. He can't quite claim it and it becomes frustrating. There is something that he is forgetting, he is sure of it, but all the same he just can't remember. The yellow of the sun outside pouring in hits his irises right on target when he peers over Will's shoulder and opens his eyes wider and it's uncomfortable and he damn near hisses. The brightness glares at him and he glares back, although the stare of any person anywhere is never enough to put up a fair fight against the sun and he relents, nuzzling back into the neck still warm from his sweat and breaths.

And suddenly the spark that lit up in his mind comes to him with all of its strength and Frederick Chilton gasps, breaking away from the still sleeping body of Will Graham and throwing his arm onto his wooden nightstand with such force and lack of care in his panic that he ends up knocking both his mobile phone and his alarm clock onto the wooden panels on the ground. They make an awful clunking sound together and Frederick, whose arm is still in contact with Will, feels the other man begin to move with the surprise and discomfort that comes with being awakened by something unexpected and altogether unpleasant.

"What is it?" says Will, words blending together in a thick and tired string. Kit, a mixed variation of golden retriever and Labrador and a few other dog breeds that Will can name but Frederick cannot shuffles over, paws making little scratching noises on the wooden floorboards, and nuzzles Frederick's hand as it hangs over the edge of the bed.

Frederick leans away so that he is on the corner of the bed and looks over. The alarm clock is a heavy rectangle, and it has fallen so that the red digits are facing towards Frederick. 12 PM. Time has run away from him like a lover in the night, and he had a few of those in his youth so he knows exactly how it goes. Damn it all. Forget time being a runaway lover, it's a runaway bandit and he wants to press charges.

"Happy anniversary," he says, glum. At that, he flops over so that he is facing Will again. "We said we were going to do something grotesquely romantic. We overslept."

"'s alright." Will shakes his head, eyes barely open. They fell asleep sometime around three in the morning, determined to finish setting up a new set of furniture to replace Will's secondhand mismatched and falling apart pieces and fit Frederick's tastes a bit more. He blinks rapidly, and then his eyes open wider and no longer sag with exhaustion.

"But I—"

"It's alright," Will repeats, with distinct emphasis. "Let's just stay in bed all day. Best present you can give me."

Frederick frowns and arranges himself and now he is lying on his back, green eyes shimmering with disappointment and staring up at the ceiling. "Will, it's our first one-year anniversary—"

"I really want to just stay here." And with those words Will edges closer, as if he is appalled that Frederick has unconsciously evaded his touch. He presses to his side, white t-shirt slightly damp with perspiration despite the chill, a hand reaching over to thumb Frederick's right cheek. Then he gifts the left cheek with a kiss that is just barely a wisp of feeling.

And damn him, but Frederick can't complain.

 **III.** **To Be Buried Alive**

They know before the phone rings. They're standing in front of the television, side by side, in the living room. The sound does not surprise nor please them. Will is the one to answer. The call was so expected that he thought to grab the phone five minutes ago, and when it rings he finds that his thumb was already on the button that picks up the call. Frederick's eyes are glued to the screen of the television that happens to be, of course, the unauthorized bearer of bad news. Will presses the speaker button because it doesn't seem fair to take the call and not let Frederick hear exactly what is to be said.

"I know, Jack," is the first thing that Will says. There's nothing more to say and there's no alternative statement. What else must be said? It is all in those three words.

Jack understands that and gets to the point, although Will knows that Jack would have been curt anyway, no matter what the situation might have been instead. "I've made arrangements to transport you to a safe house."

Typical of him to do that. Will kneads at his brow with the hard pods of his fingers, hard and flaky because he's been fishing lately. Frederick doesn't like coming with him. He's not one for the outdoors unless he's enjoying it from a cushioned beach chair or a tall balcony in a premium hotel with a glass of rum or wine in hand. But he never makes excuses not to come and sometimes they have a great time despite Frederick's fussiness. Will would be lying if he claimed that he is never annoyed by his lover's habit of complaining in excessive quantities _("But why do you have to use fish eggs to lure fish in? And why do they smell like that? Don't you dare put that fish near my face, you heathen! Let's go home now?_ ) and he would also be lying if he were to say that there isn't something beautiful in sitting in the middle of a shining lake next to the man he loves, hand in hand, head on shoulder, until the sun begins to set and they have to head back to land.

It's not the time to be pondering. He knows, however, that this happiness is going to end—has, in fact, already ended, hasn't it? The moment they turned on the television was the moment they crashed and burned. All Jack's call is really doing is adding insult to injury and what an injury it is. This is all happening in too rapid a succession and yet it is all unfolding in the jerky black and white slow motion of a beginner film student project.

"And Frederick?"

"Chilton?"

"I don't know, Jack, do we happen to know any others?"

Now Frederick is looking right at him, eyes narrowed in question. He's glad that Will has thought to ask about him without having to signal for him to do so, Will can tell. There is something ugly and nearly tangible leaking from Frederick. It is the stinking and decaying essence of such distraught anger and frustration that it is contagious. Will has the power to repel it, for now. He can't afford to be anything but calculated and cautious and above all, pragmatic. It's not the time for panic. Frederick doesn't understand this concept, but he understands most of Will's idiosyncrasies and that's more than Will ever expected from anyone.

Jack says, "Not the time, Will. I have a car coming for you. Should be there in thirty minutes. Be ready."

"What about Frederick?"

"What _about_ Frederick?"

"You know we're together." Will feels strange saying that. Maybe it's been a year but damn, it's been a long time since he's been able to have some semblance of a relationship and sorry but it's hard to get used to having to be accountable to one of his former psychiatrists, all of which are more or less pieces of work.

Some more than others.

On the other end of the line is silence for all of a whopping ten seconds before Jack responds with, "Right. Slipped my mind. You don't exactly send updates, you know. Can't be expected to discern a little nightly comfort from something serious."

"Jack," says Will, his voice growing hard. "What have you arranged for Frederick?"

"A different safe house, one a lengthy distance from you. Do you think it's wise to place Hannibal's old victims close together? I don't intend to do him any _semblance_ of a favor."

Will is silent. Think! _Think_! "Alana and Freddie?"

There are voices on Jack's end of the line, a mess of them, and some of them grow louder and Will discerns a few words here and there: _Can't, reach, get, what, I, don't._

"Separate safe houses are available to them but they're legal partners," Jack replies. "They have the right to petition against separation and be granted the opportunity to stay together without question, although I can't tell you if they did or not. I've got another guy handling them. Don't worry about them. They're going to be safe."

"So you're handling me."

"That's right." Jack's voice is becoming more and more rushed. "No time to waste, Will. I'm not in charge of Frederick and there's another agent here telling me that all we have on file for him is the old number for the asylum and an outdated house number. Since you're on such good terms, do you have a number where we can reach him?"

"This number works just fine for reaching him if we're not out being 'on good terms.'" This isn't the time, this isn't the time, this isn't the time. They need to get out of here. He can't think straight. He's burning up inside but his face isn't showing it so maybe he's winning, just maybe, maybe, maybe. He might be burning but Frederick is frigid in his stance, almost visibly cold, and Will looks away when he looks up from the phone in his hand to see that Frederick has unconsciously raised his hand to trace the gaping scar from the bullet that tore through his cheek. "But it's alright. I've got the phone on speaker and he's right in front of me."

More silence, at least on Jack's part. The understandable commotion makes for colorful and static-ridden background noise. "Frederick, you have the right to a safe house located in Fresno. There—"

The sound of Frederick's voice, surprisingly clear but also spiked with a shaky bitterness, surprises Will. "Hannibal has escaped and you're offering us so-called _safe houses_ —"

"Where's mine?" Will cuts in. It's not the time for Frederick's rage and Frederick has wandered to the wall of the living room, facing it so that Will can't see his face, so that he must be staring at the wall and contemplating how he is certainly going to die soon and how he can end his own life before Hannibal gets to do him the favor. They've had numerous lengthy conversations on the matter.

"Small suburb in a southern California county, it's secure, and—"

"I want Frederick and I placed together."

And there Jack goes again with the silence. Doesn't he understand that they need to go but they can't go like this?

"Will, I can't—"

"I know you can," says Will. "I know you're bogged down with this but you owe me at least this much, Jack. You owe me and I know you're going to want something out of me and I'm probably going to give it to you because I'm still a pawnbut I need you to do _this_."

"You're just adding to my platter of predicaments."

"I'm not going without him."

"I'll do it," says Jack. "Have it your way. I'll make new arrangements but for now I've rerouted Frederick's—Frederick, I've rerouted your car to Will's house. Go separately as planned. I've already bought your plane tickets from separate airports. Just give me a day, that's all I'm asking. I'll get you to Fresno in a day, Will—two days, at most."

"Fine." Will's blood is running cold now. He needs to hold something but Frederick is too far away and he's standing in empty space. His head hurts. He doesn't have the strength to argue. How good is Jack's word? They'll all see. Will hasn't had the pleasure of fraternizing much with the man since the end of the Dolarhyde case. Distance makes for mistrust and misfortune and all those other negative outcomes. "Was this trainee on the news really involved with his escape?"

Their relationship hasn't been the same since Hannibal's incarceration and Will's subsequent retirement and Will has crossed the line, as evidenced by Jack's blunt and hollow reply: "I'll see you in two weeks, Will."

The line goes dead.

"Shit!" Frederick yells, his voice hoarse and splintered. He pounds on the wall with a fist and then lurches back from the pain. Will doesn't step forward despite the impulse that runs through him. He's paralyzed for a moment.

The petite reporter with short loose hair on the television screen opens her mouth, a red news ribbon and several bulletins surrounding her on the screen, a blue silhouette of a world map behind her, and says, "Tomorrow night we will feature a key witness of the Buffalo Bill case and further discuss the possible involvement of Ms. Clarice Starling, the young FBI trainee who caught the ruthless serial killer, in the escape of Hannibal Lecter."

Shit, indeed.

 **IV.** **How to Divide Parting Words**

Not that either of them ever doubted Jack in earnest, but when a sleek black car pulls in Will's driveway and another follows a minute after both of them let out a deep sight of pent-up relief, anger, grief. They also become solemn because they know that they must part now. It is an altogether sad affair, soured by the miserable sight of old stained suitcases, one in each of their hands. Will checks the pockets of his thick gray winter coat multiple times. It goes to the spot just above his knee just as Frederick's own black winter coat does. He's not in the habit of tirelessly worrying—he's not Frederick—but there is paranoia uncharacteristic of him welling up in the pit of his stomach and growing so wide that yes, it's alright, it's okay if he bursts out into bits of flesh now. The only person that will really mourn him will be Frederick. Maybe Frederick will die of a broken heart and then they can meet up in the afterlife and talk about how they wish they had never met a man named Hannibal Lecter.

Will is going insane.

Their goodbye starts out unsentimental and perhaps a little cold to the role of the alien eye, if only because they don't touch and their words are inaudible from the cars, and the role in this case is played by the FBI agents in the black cars waiting for them. They stand in front of them both, silently coming to the agreement that even though some privacy would be nice neither of them feels comfort from being away from the eyes of people in possession of guns and various other weapons.

(Each of them has a gun tucked into their coats, but that's beyond the point.)

"Take your medication, Will."

"I will. Take yours, too."

"I never forget. You know that."

"Call me if you get the chance."

"I expect you to be on the phone with me every minute that we are parted."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm serious."

A pause. Reluctance. "Stay level."

"Shut up."

"Just don't—don't do anything drastic."

"Like what, Will? Like what?"

"I don't know. Just don't. Stay put."

"I have no intentions to flee, if that's what you're implying. But I _am_ willing to flee if you'll come with me. Cuba is nice this time of the year, you know, and my family will be glad to meet you. And other things. Actually I'm quite sure they are all adamantly homophobic in the spirit of the Catholic faith, but—let's go. Let's just take off. He'll never find us."

"That's the kind of drastic I'm talking about."

A pause on another's part. "Right. I'm going mad, Will. I can't do this."

"If he's coming, he's not coming now."

"You can't know that."

"I can make a pretty good guess."

And then there are no words for a good minute. They simply look at each other. Then something shifts and Will holds out his hands, fingers splayed out. They hang before him the way a whisper of farewell lingers in the air for centuries after it is uttered, and Frederick clasps them in an action that is a simple shush. Will's cutting blue eyes meet Frederick's darkened irises of emerald. The meeting of their eyes is a reunion of something ancient and bitter and a direct result of the rekindling of new traumas, rekindling that was unlocked by everything that has come to pass in the past hour. Another dragging moment is home only to the gathering of hands and eyes and the silence of closed lips becoming chapped in the snow-covered cold. In that moment they are content to exist alone in an unmoving world, touching only by their cold fingers. Yet there is an underlying warm to this. They're familiar with each other's love. They've felt it on days colder than this one. Lord knows they've proclaimed it to each other, perhaps not in excessive quantities but enough for them to know. And underneath this warmth is an urgency barely known to them—what is to come now? They cannot bear the thought of facing whatever it may be without the other, not for a moment. The urgency increases and then breaks the serene still moment when Frederick is so moved that he suddenly raises Will's left hand and kisses the tip of Will's pinky finger, moving on to the ring finger, and so on until he reaches the right hand and takes care of that one. He kisses each one for an extended series of seconds, as if he'll never get to lay his lips on Will's skin again.

Will closes his eyes as Frederick does this. Then that moment is over, too, and Will opens his eyes and sees Frederick's eyes piercing his and it's overwhelming and he reaches out and places his kissed fingers to either side of Frederick's face and kisses him, long and gentle, but careful for fear of seeming like a soldier kissing his love goodbye before going into battle. In this case they are both soldiers anyway, and he knows it is not wise to seem as shaken as he is. He tries to convince himself it's purely for Frederick's sake and not because he can't bear to think that his old best friend might be coming to finish the job he started years ago and he doesn't want that old best friend to see that after all this time he still stays up some nights and tries to plan out how he would have acted differently.

"Have a safe flight," Frederick says when Will pulls away and they both know it's because they can't find a way to say what their actual current flurry of thoughts is.

"You too," Will says. "And I mean it. Please. Call me to let me know you're fine."

Frederick nods, and their hands come together between them without them realizing it. There is a new strength and determination blazing in his eyes and his entire demeanor is painted over with a renewed energy and anger that is not self-destructive. "Six months is an eternity for some but there is time ahead of us yet. I meant it when I said we have a future together, Will Graham. Hannibal Lecter is not going to ruin that, not now."

And that new strength and determination in Frederick is suddenly contagious and Will feels it possess him and he squeezes Frederick's hand and the world starts in regular speed again.

 **V.** **The Treachery of Images**

When Will arrives in California, he looks over at one of the television screens hanging in the vast waiting room and stops in his tracks when he sees a mug shot of Hannibal Lecter displayed on the plasma screen. Someone almost crashes into him and he turns around to apologize. When he realizes that it is only the agent sent to accompany him for his protection—a woman, early thirties, silent and bulky and obviously good at her job but still unwelcome by Will because he can't wrap his head around this, not completely, and that means that he's not a very good travel companion today, or ever, really, but that's due to his natural personality—and she shakes her head and motions for him to keep moving to baggage claim.

He has never enjoyed plane rides. The journey was hellish. To be in a small and secluded place makes him uneasy and sets him on edge. The view to his right, through the heavy glass layer, daunted him – out there was a mess of wispy white called _clouds_ , a mess of gentle blue called _the sky_ , both assets that are quite fine in theory but uncomfortable when so _close_.

The lively spectacle that is an airport is also a concoction of shrill and low voices, a mixture of rushing and tapping feet and padding footsteps, and a rush of cool air that comes running with the feeling of compressed warm bodies daunt him. There are smells in the air, mingling to create an odd harmony: a bold coffee brew from the resident Starbucks, burgers from a full restaurant, fragrant perfume from old ladies, spice cologne from gray-haired men, the fruity smell of a recently cleaned floor (he tries not to think about the recently cleaned floor back home, the one that he watched Frederick huff and puff over because _the floors are dusty as all hell and I can't stand it, Will_ ) and colors attack him from all angles. There is far too much to focus on.

It feels as if this is a conspiracy against him. Everything that he feels is heightened, at present. To feel distinct unease in public places is nothing unfamiliar to him; however, this is something that extends that simple unease and augments and morphs it, and now he is scared. He stops before arriving at baggage claim, halting by a newspaper, magazine, and book stand. Fingers, capped with gnawed nails, touch the bag strap hanging idle on his shoulder. They must be his own. But he realizes that they are not his own and he panics and looks to his left and meets the eyes of a concerned girl, tan and green-eyed. She works at the stand. Her oversized blue work smock gives that away. The agent walking him behind him has halted next to the stand, hand flexing in such a way that to most people it might look like she is simply flexing, a natural movement, but Will can tell that she is ready to take action if action must be taken.

"Sorry, sir," she says, removing her hand. "Are you okay? Your face turned white, just like that, and you don't look too steady on your feet. Can I get you something? Water?"

He shakes his head, slowly, and looks into her worried eyes for as long as he can before running a hand through his curls and eyeing a _Times_ magazine on one of the displays. "No, thank you, I'm fine."

"I know fine," says the blonde, shaking her head and taking her place at the register. The tips of her fingers do a medley across the counter, over a newspaper that she was reading prior to Will almost colliding into a display that reads _BESTSELLERS_ , the first display on the left. "You don't look fine."

Will gives her a sideways look, decides not to comment, and buries his hands into the pockets of his coat, relatively new in appearance but advanced in age. Underneath, he dons a brown sweater that is laden with balls of lint, and his black trousers are wrinkled and bear a stain from something mysterious that rubbed onto the fabric from a chair that he sat in a long time ago as a trainee in the FBI academy and never came off, not even with the expensive stain removal equipment some old classmate of his happened to own. He cannot pin much blame on the girl, he knows that he is a somewhat daunting sight, with the disfigured half of his face and dark circles and lack of a recent shave. Sure, he more or less has been sleeping incredibly better since he and Frederick formed what they have now, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't still wake up from memories of Garrett Jacob Hobbs from time to time and especially in the winter.

The stubble on his chin is rough and uncomfortable because he neglected to shave for the past few days and this morning was stolen from him. He removes his left hand from his pocket and runs his pointer finger over the small hairs, then he looks at the bestselling books that are placed next to him, shooting a look over to the agent to let her know he's stopping for a moment and everything is alright. A title stands out amongst the rest: _Maneater._ The cover is blood red, and on it is a black drawing of a woman in profile, her curls exquisitely shaped and cascading across the rectangle. This is Freddie Lounds' memoir, featuring an entire chapter devoted to Will Graham and an entire chapter devoted to Frederick Chilton and, of course, a handful of chapters that touch upon the relationship between herself and Alana Bloom. "A joining of two healing souls," Freddie called it, and of Frederick and Will she noted the "spectacular bond that occurs when two people have nearly identical scars and the same emotional baggage." The book, in its entirety, has been read by Will. She sent it to him before its publication date. Will has become more fond of Freddie since Hannibal's incarceration, he'll admit, and he'll also admit that she can definitely write but that doesn't mean that he approved of her immortalizing something he thinks is better off forgotten and left in the past in the form of a bestselling memoir.

These copies are new prints, though. He's never seen this cover, he only owns the hardcover edition, not this new mass market paperback copy. Something compels him. His reasoning is that he owes her this much, so he pulls his wallet out of his pocket nonetheless and grabs the book, and moves over to the counter, where he places it facedown so that the barcode will be easily accessible.

"That all?" asks the girl.

"Yes," says Will.

She taps something into the machine, and it makes a little ping. "Nine-fifty."

He hands over a crumpled green bill, worth ten dollars, and she hands him his change. He collects the book, thanks her with a nod, and makes to leave.

"Get a good night's sleep, sir," calls the girl after him. Will almost does not turn, but in the end he does. He's about to say something like _That's the plan_ or _Thanks, I will_ , but as he turns to face her another plasma screen turned to a popular news channel that happens to be placed in perfect view of both him and the salesgirl turns from a photo of Alana Bloom to a photo of him in a dress shirt standing next to Alana and Freddie, both in simple white summer dresses on the day they signed their marriage papers, with Frederick next to him wearing a matching dress shirt. It's a bit too much. He thinks about how it was a beautiful day, two months ago, a nice windy September day, and they were all so happy and he and Frederick returned home past midnight, laughing and slightly drunk from pristine glasses of expensive champagne served by Freddie and paid for by the royalty checks from her book, probably, and they were clutching each other and Frederick pushed him against the front door after closing it and although Will is typically the quieter participant during sex that day was different and he was feeling different and he was feeling, above all, happy, and there was a burning in his chest that he knew was present in Frederick's chest as well and he couldn't stand it and he said something awful and vulgar like _Frederick, take me, take me right here_ , and goddamn but that was a good day, and—

Right. There's a reality to focus on.

The voiceover on the channel says, "What is to be done about Lecter's survivors? No information has been disclosed yet, but pictured here are Alana Bloom, Freddie Lounds, Will Graham, and Frederick Chilton, none of which have been available for comment on this emergency…"

The salesgirl isn't looking at him with sympathy anymore, though. It's been replaced by some kind of awe, some kind of fear, almost. Will rips his eyes from the screen and then her and then, in a brisk voice, he says to the agent, "Come on."

Damn Lecter can't let him have a single moment to himself after breaking out, can he?

 **VI. Trepidation**

The safe house is small, unassuming, inconspicuous, hidden in a dense suburban jungle of life and other homes and soccer teams and fundraisers and grocery lists and giggles. It's enough to induce disgust within Will. There is a very good reason he chooses to live so far away from this kind of thing. Not that he's all that fond of them but even cities are better, if only slightly; at least there's some kind of anonymity to be gained when walking through a city, but suburbs like these, where everyone acts happy and participates in the community and has something to say—these places set his nerves on fire. Everything has a degree of closeness that he is not altogether comfortable with.

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he is walking in, the female agent now joined by a male agent who has a shiny bald head and a grim expression on his flushed white face. Both walk behind him, and Will stops in his tracks for the second time today because there's a possibility that it's Frederick, who called him earlier but said he'd call again, or Jack, who might have news on when he can get the hell out of here.

But it's neither of the two. When he opens his phone, there's only a single text message.

 _Good luck._

Thanks, Margot.

 **VII.** **Sleeping Lessons from an Insomniac**

Francis Dolarhyde stands before him and it occurs to Will that this is how he is going to die.

These are his last moments on Earth. There go the flashes of life like film flickering past his eyes. His mother leaving, his father screaming, the whip of a belt, the taunts of schoolchildren, the screech of chalk on a chalkboard, the first succession of A's on his report cards, the first kiss given to him by a boy he befriended he was twelve, the first girl he dated to make his father believe he wasn't "bent" only to realize he was simultaneously interested in the allures of both sexes, the realization that he wanted to become an FBI agent, the first psychiatrist that deemed him mentally unfit, the—

That isn't right. Those aren't the big issues. He fast forwards. These are his last moments. He thinks about Hannibal Lecter, sat in his cell and perfectly aware of how he has influenced Francis Dolarhyde, knowing exactly what it is that he has driven the man to do. He thinks about Abigail Hobbs, with her throat twice slit and her young little body buried seven feet underground with nothing but a slab of gravel and a few wilting flowers to keep her company. He thinks about Margot Verger and wonders if he should have made more of an effort to keep in touch, if he should have been more insistent on making sure that Mason Verger's lack of a face remedied her lack of control over her life. He thinks about his father, a drunk, and his mother, a runaway. He thinks about Jack Crawford and how he resents him even though that isn't fair, and he thinks about Alana Bloom, whose front lawn he is about to stain with his blood while she sits inside with her cane by her side and her heart perched a few miles away from her sleeve.

And yet none of it matters because he's here now and he is going to die. Francis Dolarhyde is merciless. He is the definition of savagery even with his graceful movements, and in the rush Will thinks that he does not so much resemble a dragon, but a tiger; in fact, he sees the Red Dragon fluctuate as he pounces on him. His jaw becomes the jaw of a large cat, with pointed fangs, and he is now a blur of orange and black and white, with triangular eyes and striped, erect ears. He roars, hideously. It shakes the very foundations of existence and Will feels his hands tremble dangerously.

There is a shaft of silver in the Red Dragon's unshaking hands. Will revels in this show of composure because he knows that he is going to die, and he would like to come to peace with everything chaotic before greeting Death, who is bound to be put off by how often Will has cheated it. There's already a bullet lodged in his shoulder with no problem and another lodged somewhere else, he can't tell, he's going numb. Bullets belong in the shoulders of FBI agents, even the would-be kind. The universe is content to have it this way.

When the knife finds a place in the tender skin of his right cheek and narrowly avoids rupturing the eyeball, he lets out an animalistic groan of pain. But the knife twists slightly to the side and the Red Dragon strikes again, his knees pinning Will to the driveway at his sides. Will fancies himself already dead. He's become friends with pain much like this; he can ignore it efficiently, he knows he can. Francis goes down again and this time he also fails to get him in the eye, instead targeting the point down below the original puncture, and he makes to pull the weapon out again and in the second that he does so Alana Bloom smashes his head with her heavy cane several times with strength granted to her by panic.

Will feels the distinct lack of weight on him and shakes his head and he tastes the rust of vein's liquid coursing out of their place and onto the surface of his tongue, specked with sense buds. His face is a torn mess where it has been ravaged by the claws of the Dragon and he sits up and is barely able to see through the red that plagues his vision that Francis Dolarhyde is crawling after Alana's tedious tapping footsteps, grasping at his throbbing head, following her into her open front door.

"Alana, _no_ , Alana." The words are barely comprehensible when uttered because his jaw stings and he can't talk properly. Will tries to stand, he fails, he tries again and manages, falling against his car before tumbling down to the ground and he hears a gunshot and thinks no, no, no.

It just can't end like _that_.

A cry catches itself in his throat when Alana Bloom, gun in her hand and hair tossed like a hurricane, stumbles out of her house without her walking aid. There is blood on her blue sweater. She drops the gun and grabs Will's shoulders, struggling to kneel with him on the ground.

"I've called for help," she says.

Will opens his mouth and instead of words all that comes out is a mess of blood and he almost chokes and suddenly he's in a hospital room but that isn't right because—because—because wasn't he just on Alana's lawn? Covered in blood? There is a doctor writing something down on paper placed on a clipboard by his bed. He looks up at her, wonders where he is, looks for answers in her face and in the plain room that he is. Hysteria tries to grip him.

"Be still ," the doctor says. She is a short creature with a plump figure and a lazy eye hidden behind spectacles. The clipboard is placed on his nightstand. "You've got a mess of stitches in your face there, and then some. Your condition is stable, but let's not tempt fate."

Will cannot speak. He also cannot see out of his right eye.

"Your face is swollen, so is your eye," she says, and she opens a drawer on the bedside table and pulls out a blue notepad and a blue ink pen. "Here you are. I'm Dr. Lee. I'll brief you on what happened, and then you can ask whatever you want to ask."

He shakes his head as best as he can, and opens the notepad. However, there are so many names that come to mind he cannot settle on one to ask after and closes it, relenting.

The doctor's tone is sympathetic. "You went into surgery immediately after arriving. I'm afraid you lost your spleen due to the bullet shot, but all is well without one and you'll be fine. In a few weeks, the swelling on your face should go down, and you should be able to see through your right eye and talk without issue."

And then Abigail Hobbs walks into the room and her blue eyes catch Will's matching ones and Will sits up so abruptly he thinks his torso is going to rip away from his waist, and she reaches out and says, "You can save me now."

 _How?_ Will wants to ask, but before he can another person enters the room. Hannibal. Will sees the knife in his hand and lurches forward with such strength that he falls on the ground before the two of them and when his body hits the cold ground they are no longer in the hospital room. This is the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane now and instead of Abigail Hobbs with a knife destined for her throat, Frederick is now standing there, eyes closed and body eerily still.

"It is sloppy to leave something unfinished," Hannibal says, and then he makes to slit Frederick's throat and—

Will's eyes fly open, incredulous, and for several seconds he is left gasping for breath, unable to grasp that he is awake now and the nightmare is over, none of that actually happened—well, most of it did happen, actually, but that was so long ago, and it's over now, it's over.

It takes him a few more seconds before he realizes that his phone is ringing and that must be what woke him up in the first place. He's a little grateful for that, at least; since he's been here, in the suburban safe house, for the past three days he's been having nightmares again. There's no surprise to be felt in that but it's still unpleasant.

He grabs his phone and presses the answer key when he sees that it is Jack calling. "Jack?"

"You've got a 7 AM flight to Fresno. Pack up. You're welcome."

Will sits up, groaning at the groggy discomfort, and rubs his sleepy eyes. "Shit. What time is it?"

"4 AM. Just secured the ticket. Wasn't easy, so just count your lucky stars. I'll see you in Fresno."

For a moment Will considers hanging up because and imitating Jack's standoffish tendencies because Jack took three days, not two, to get this done but he thinks better of it and says, "Thanks, Jack."

"No time for pleasantries, Will."

"Right," Will says, rubbing his tangled hair and looking towards the windows. The house is small, two bedrooms. He's got the master bedroom, although it's so tiny he can't imagine how small the regular bedroom that the two agents alternately use must be. In the dark, it is the moon that lights up the gray curtains, and he can make out the nightstand and the small desk in the corner. "Any, er—any updates?"

"We'll talk in person, Will," says Jack, and Will knows that essentially means he can't be bothered to stay on the phone any longer.

So he doesn't, and Will puts his phone away and stands up. He stretches his back and then smiles a bit, despite himself.

It's not so much an indication of happiness but an indication of relief.

 **VIII.** **The Heavens Sing of No One But Us**

Will arrives in Fresno and knocks on the brown door of the equally suburban safe house designated for Frederick Chilton, surviving former victim of Hannibal Lecter, and when one of the agents sent to protect Frederick opens the door—a tall man, dark brown skin, firm shoulders, angry face—Frederick pushes past the man and throws his arms around Will before Will gets more than a four second interval to take in his face.

"Thank _god_ you're here," Frederick breathes, and he tucks his fingers into Will's hair as he speaks. "I'm going crazy, Will, they just loom, and no one wants to tell me anything useful. Thank god you're here so we can bask in our suffering together."

Later that night they curl into the creaking mattress together and find their favored spaces in each other, tugging and pulling and caressing and ignoring the persistent whine of the old springs beneath them. Frederick, hanging over Will with his knees at either side of his bony hips, shudders when Will draws the other man's hands up to his lips and kisses the tips of fingers, returning the gesture granted to him before, and this action tells Frederick that he is grateful to have been allowed to return to him. Frederick, in turn, leans down and tents their foreheads together and touches the individual strands of Will's rich brunet tresses, running them through his kissed fingers—not so much kissed but blessed—and this conveys what his ragged drumbeat of a heartbeat is already whispering into Will's hand on his chest:

 _I love you._

They know what they're doing, this is a familiar practice for them—the flush of warm skin against more warm skin; the crinkling of a nose as it bumps against another point of cartilage; the breathed words that go almost unheard and do their best to flee into the beam of the moon, who seems to say _your time is limited_ with her motherly way of performing a clock's duty and all the same the words rebound and slip into their ears anyway. This is their glory, still being carefully constructed, still being overseen and scrutinized even by every slice of air they breathe no matter how much it seems like minutiae.

Words come easily between them and that's why they've been able to come this far. That doesn't mean that sometimes they don't falter and wonder what exactly it is they're doing. One time, several months ago, sometime near the beginning, maybe, Frederick turned to Will with utter bewilderment painted into his eyes as they sat out in the middle of a lake and asked, "Why?"

Will felt his throat convulse, but somehow he still managed to say, "You bring me to life."

Moments like that validate them.

They fall asleep in each other's arms and there is no talk of escaped criminals.

 **IX.** **Who will save the victim from the hero?**

"I think you should speak with Agent Starling."

The light from the fireplace is the only light in the living room of the safe house besides the stream of light leaking in, leftover from the bulbs of the kitchen—where Will can hear Frederick clamoring about and making coffee or tea or something that requires a pot and boiled water, he hasn't been in the mood to listen since Jack arrived an hour ago—and Jack turns his head to point down, frowning. Goddamn, he's frustrated. Will can tell because he can relate, sure, but he's sure anyone with a quarter of their wits about them would be able to tell that he's a man who has been trying to find a needle in a haystack for some time now. Admittedly, he does actually feel some kind of guilt.

He doesn't think about his doubts anymore. Even if he did, looking into the mirror would cure him of them in an instant. The careful wording of Jack's request doesn't go unnoticed by him. _I think_. As in a suggestion, not a demand nor a real request. The man is treading carefully. He's playing his hand at earning old comradeship back.

Will looks away from the man. "This isn't my case anymore. It's yours and Starling's. I'm here because I'm not stupid, Jack. It doesn't go further than that at all."

"Todo está bien, Elisa, no te preocupas," Frederick says from the kitchen.

(He's talking to his younger sister, Will knows. Will himself has spoken to Elisa Molina, née Chilton, on the phone on a few times. They will most likely never meet in person, just as Frederick and Elisa will most likely never see each other in the physical form again. Elisa's husband is brutally homophobic and refuses to host the bisexual Frederick. Elisa is passive and timid and passionately in love with the man despite his faults, according to a long conversation between Will and Frederick many months ago, and cannot stand up to him. What Frederick resents most about the situation is the lost time with his beloved niece.)

Jack's eyes are narrow and unwavering slits in the wispy orange light of the flames. This moment is oddly reminiscent of another, if only slightly. One year ago, almost. One unwelcome letter, reluctantly opened. One pile of ashes, crucial and the bringer of odd relief.

"It's just a conversation, Will," he says. "That's all I'm asking of you. If she's going to be one of the main agents on this case, she's going to need your insight. She's never handled him in a situation where he isn't behind bars and at a considerable disadvantage. Talk is one thing. You're the only one that's ever really learned the walk."

"I can't. I—I can't." Will sighs and pushes a few short locks away from his forehead. "You don't know what you're really asking of me. I can't teach someone how to understand Hannibal. I'm not a Hannibal Lecter expert. You're asking me to explain how my empathy works. I can't do that."

"Estamos algún lado seguro, sí. No tienes razón para preocuparte, hermana. Buenas noches. Háblame cuando puedes. No. Sí, dile a Rosita que la quiero mucho. Adiós. Adiós, adiós, ja, ja, ja, cuídate. Te quiero. Adiós."

In his mind's eye, Will can see the tight line that Frederick's bright smile becomes when he ends a phone call with a family member.

For all of a handful of seconds, Jack stares intently into the fireplace before looking at Will. Something has changed in his expression. He looks much older than he looked when he first came to Will and asked him to help with the case of the murders that would later be discovered to have been committed at the hand of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. His head is almost completely gray now and there are new wrinkles beginning to form on his cheeks. It's been three years since Hannibal Lecter was put behind bars and three years and six months since Abigail Hobbs died while Alana, Jack, and Will came close to joining her, all in close proximity. Add that to the death of Bella Crawford and one can only wonder how Jack has still managed to keep up the exact same quality of work he's always churned out without looking like much strain was putting put forth on his behalf.

"I don't regret trusting her with him," Jack says. It surprises Will. His tone is no longer formal. It is friendly—as friendly as Jack's voice ever becomes, that is. Or perhaps the tone is more trusting than anything else. It occurs to Will that Jack does not have a reason to not trust him, actually. It is solely Will that has lost his trust in Jack. He hasn't heard trust in Jack's voice since Alana Bloom killed Francis Dolarhyde because he has not _wanted_ to hear trust in Jack's voice. Knowing the trust is completely one-sided threatens the stony barriers Will has been placing against Jack ever since. If this much is true, that Jack does not truly resent him, then perhaps it is also true that Will's one-man war against Jack Crawford has also been one-sided.

It's not a very nice realization and it does a little bit to wound Will's newfound pride but it's also not an altogether _not_ nice realization.

He closes his eyes and asks what he has been wanting to ask. "Is she really at fault for his escape?"

It takes Jack a few seconds to put together a response. "No. Not at all. An unfortunate part of it, but it's not her fault. He would have achieved it eventually, some other way. The truth, Will? If she hadn't gotten to him, the whole thing would have been a hell of a lot messier."

The words come out before Will can stop them. He doesn't want to admit that his interest is piqued by this and yet he finds himself saying, "What exactly did Agent Starling do for you, Jack? Why her?"

"She reminded me of you," Jack says, far too easily. "And I don't exactly have you on the employee roster anymore. Not that I ever did, but you get it. I needed information and Hannibal had it."

"You owe me more than that, Jack."

And Jack can't argue, so he says, with somewhat of a grimace and a sprinkling of shame in his voice, "You remember how we had Hannibal try his hand at your game back in the day. I knew he was capable of 'emulating your empathy,' if that's the right way to phrase it, and I took advantage of that. But I needed someone like you to coax it out of him first."

"That might not have been the best move on your part."

"I've got worse insults than that coming my way already, Will. Either way, Starling isn't the one in the wrong here. And I don't think I made a mistake. I chose the only course of action I could choose. It was that or let more innocent girls die."

"Yeah," Will scoffs. "I've been there before."

"You read the Jame Gumb files I sent you?"

"Yes." They had arrived in a thick, tightly sealed envelope four days ago—ten days into the stay at the safe house. "He was clever, but he wasn't Dolarhyde."

"Or Hannibal."

"Hannibal is the serial killer that serial killers dream of becoming," Frederick says, entering the room with a tray of hot coffee and a very specific brand of dairy-free cream (thanks to the matter of his kidney, or lack thereof) and sugar. "Don't place such high expectations on the amateurs."

A low chuckle resonates through Will, as he is always amused by Frederick's odd ability to turn Hannibal into a passing dinner party type joke that is amusing only because it is frank and unexpected. He appreciates that Frederick has somewhat lightened the mood. It's a coping mechanism for them both. Jack, on the other hand, raises an eyebrow at Frederick as if to say something along the lines of _Is this really the time, Dr. Chilton_?

Frederick notices and shakes his head, placing the tray on the coffee table that stands between the arm chair Jack is seated in and the sofa, and then takes a seat next to Will on the long sofa. "Don't look at me like that, Jack. I have arrived at the acceptance stage over these past ten days of captivity. 'Que sera, sera,' my father always said. At any rate, have we not cheated him enough? If this is the end, let it be the end."

"There's no 'end' in the forecast, Frederick," Will says, quietly. Now his mood has been dampened a bit. He knows it's an act, of course; he knows, perfectly well, that come Jack's leave Frederick will crumple into a mess of irritable bitterness again and it will be slightly contagious and they will both fall asleep wrapped in the uncomfortable and thorny hold of Trauma and Night Terrors, the main villains of their sleepless nights.

"Pessimism is a genetic trait, darling," Frederick says, deadpan, and he flicks a piece of hair out of Will's eyes. "You need a haircut."

"I _was_ going to get one," says Will, "and then our good friend escaped from prison."

Frederick shakes his head, and leans forward to take one of the mugs of coffee. It is tall and orange. The three mugs on the tray are all different colors and shapes, Will notes, which is an arrangement that he knows Frederick would never have dealt out at home. They don't have many visitors, but they do have a few, and Frederick, since beginning the path to emotional healing, has gone back to his affinity for keeping up appearances, hence the act he is putting on for Jack's sake.

As he is placing creamer into his coffee, Frederick says, "Always so rude, the hypocritical morality-preaching bastard. We haven't seen hide nor hair of him for four years and here he is ruining our domestic bliss. Most people send postcards, you know, but no, not him, not _that_ pretentious bastard. Coffee, Jack?"

Jack is staring at them with a carefully blank expression. He shakes his head at the offer. "I've had enough cups of coffee in the past few days to fuel a few dozen classes of college students, thanks. You two are great at playing husband and husband in crisis. Now let's get back to the pertinent matter at hand here."

Will feels himself burn at the words, although he is aware that Jack is not speaking maliciously. He can't explain their way of handling things to Jack—no 'outsider,' per se, would really grasp it. But if he and Frederick make it work, it's their business.

"Right," Will says, clearing his throat. Beside him, Frederick is flushed with embarrassment as he settles back into position and takes a sip of coffee. "You were saying something about the Jame Gumb files?"

"You read them," says Jack, once again proving his ability to jump straight into solemn business in a matter of seconds, "so you know about his vague connection to Hannibal. We made use of it, we caught him, and we saved a very important girl—at an extremely high cost."

"At an impossibly high cost," Will says. "You're not going to get him back. I need you to know that and your Starling needs to know that, too. I was lucky. Catching him once? Fluke of fate. Catching him twice? Mark it a cold case file. Don't waste the time and money. Even if I could somehow conduct the little training session you want me to hold with Agent Starling—even if I agreed to be put back on the case again. He's gone for good."

"See, Will, that isn't acceptable." Jack flexes his fingers on the chair's arm rest and makes a fist. The veins in his hands are thick when he clenches his fist. "Not for me. Not for anyone. Give up the cryptic bullshit."

"I'm being as straightforward as I can possibly be."

"Dammit, Will!" Jack stands up abruptly and it becomes even clearer that he has aged considerably when his knees quiver slightly at the unprecedented force. "What do you want? To be confined to a safe house and a false identity for the rest of your life?"

Will looks away from him and points his gaze at the tray of coffee. This is a mess. He wishes Jack would leave already and end this vicious cycle they've been playing at since Will announced he was retiring after putting Hannibal behind bars and then announcing it again after the Red Dragon died for the second time. Freddie Lounds' memoir, crisp and almost unopened, is sitting on the corner of the table. In a bout of boredom two days ago, he and Frederick picked through it and read their favorite—or least favorite, more like—parts aloud.

It all becomes very candid and bright to Will in that moment, and he stands, startling Frederick, who looks up at him with confused eyes. But Will doesn't notice—not really. His mind is on something, an idea, the core of an idea, something to bite at, something that is developing. He's had time to wallow in fear. Logic is prodding at him now.

"How did Starling convince Hannibal to help?" He can't form the idea quickly enough. He's out of practice. His so-called talent is always turning around in his head but he hasn't used it for something like this in so long. "I know he was promised the opportunity to spend his nine life sentences in a nicer facility, but he wouldn't do it just for that. There was something else, wasn't there? Or does Starling have hypnotic powers of coercion?"

The sarcasm in his last statement prompts Jack to turn around, and the old man—that's what he is now, really—looks almost incredulous at Will's surge of energy. It's always _almost_ with Jack, never _completely_ and never _hardly._ He says, with _almost_ the air of someone confessing a crime, "He frequently requested personal information from Starling, mostly concerning her, in exchange for information."

"Hannibal offered you aid in exchange for gossip," says Will. A statement, not a shocked statement. "That makes sense. Look—Clarice Starling is a star trainee. She must be, if you gave her a job like this. Top of the class, always exceeding, stone-faced epitome of what an FBI agent should be. Probably well-versed in all the required texts, the type of person that watches all those true crime documentaries, things like that. Hannibal's case has been highly sensationalized. I can't go near the bureau or the academy without being stopped by some erratic trainee—'Sorry, Agent Graham, I just wanted to know if I could get your autograph, you're such a hero,' that kind of thing. Is—"

"What are you trying to get at, Will?" asks Jack, clearly irritated and frustrated and afflicted with every similar emotion.

"This."

With that, Will grabs Freddie's book off the table and holds it up for Jack to see.

"Wait, I'm sorry," Frederick says, although he rarely ever is, and both Will and Jack look at him, clearly taken aback by the sudden speech from that direction. Frederick stands, gingerly setting the mug down and straightening out the gray tie placed against the white shirt underneath his gray suit, worn for—of course—the sake of appearances. "Will, what does Freddie's memoir have to do with anything?"

"It has to do with everything." Will can't believe that neither of them can see it. "Freddie is the only one out of me, Frederick, and Alana who has made any public statements about our current circumstances. It's all in this book."

"She's read it," Jack says, slowly, still trying to piece what Will is saying together. "She mentioned it when I asked how familiar she was with the case of Hannibal Lecter."

"Freddie has never been able to boast of credibility, Will," says Frederick, crossing his arms and gazing at him with all the criticism of an avid skeptic. "Why on earth would Hannibal accept her word as gospel if it was the only information available to him?"

He has to reel himself in and command himself to slow down in order to provide Frederick with the explanation. "He knows I promised her the rights to my story. Her memoir, while written in an exaggerated manner, doesn't claim anything that isn't true."

"And how does this tie into the bigger picture?" Jack raises a critical eyebrow.

"I made sure that Hannibal would never know anything about me after entering into imprisonment," Will says, feeling himself calm down, unwind, deflate. The climatic epiphany is shooting downwards at a moderate rate. "It might have been a mistake—no, it was definitely a mistake. Congratulations, Jack. You're getting your wish. I need to talk to Starling and find out how much she told Hannibal about me, about Frederick, Alana, Freddie, You, even."

"I'm sure something came up at one point. He made several requests. But it's like I said, most of them concerned only Starling—"

"Most, not all." It's growing late. The clock above the mantle reads 10:06 PM. "And that's the point. He can't have asked too many questions concerning us. He knew there was a strict barrier put in place. Even Starling must have known that. But she was doing her job and if I was her, I'd have let slip a few things here and there."

When Will feels Frederick's familiar hand clasp his, he feels the tug of reality ground him, once and for all, and he is grateful but no less determined.

With a softer tone in his voice, he adds, "I know how it feels to want to save a life."

It wasn't that long ago he was making a career out of it. Work, help, save lives. That's the outline and it used to be grotesquely appealing. Sometimes it still is. It got him a scarred face and torn navel and a cabinet of pills, but it was appealing.

"She's available for a video call tomorrow afternoon," says Jack. He is more pleased and relieved than he is letting on. "I talked to her earlier. She regrets not being able to talk to you in person, but there's a lot of shit brewing at the bureau and she's at the center of it."

"Perfect," says Will.

 **X.** **He yearns for matching graves.**

"I'm not comfortable with this," is the first thing Frederick says when Jack leaves the safe house for the comfort of his hotel room.

Will doesn't need to ask what it is that Frederick is not comfortable with. All the same, he says, "You're not comfortable with what, exactly?"

"You have been very adamant about not getting involved whatsoever." His suit, crisp and recently returned from the laundromat, contradicts the wild look about him and the dark circles that are almost always present underneath his emerald eyes. "I don't understand how you can suddenly succumb like this. Just what the hell do you think you're doing? You're out of your mind."

The energy to get angry, upset, perturbed, whatever—it's just not coming at the moment. Will sighs, long and tired, and places a hand on Frederick's shoulder. "I'm not succumbing. I need to know what Clarice Starling said to him. About me. About you. I know what we've said before, about him not leaving anything unfinished, but I don't think he believes us to be unfinished. It's—it's difficult to say, without knowing what Clarice said to him."

"'Clarice'," Frederick echoes. "First name basis with your new colleagues already."

That gets him.

Will removes his hand from Frederick's shoulder so quickly one might think it had just delivered an electric shock to his flesh. "Should've said something sooner. I'm not a mind reader, despite what you might believe."

"When have I ever—" Frederick's eyes are saucers. He steps back, aghast. "Of all people—of all people, you should know—I'm loath to admit it but I have not exactly been in the best state as of late."

They can't look at each other. Frederick's burst of pseudo-rage has subsided. If they were just a little less sleep-deprived, a little happier, a little more comfortable—under those conditions they might have the most explosive fight in the history of their relationship. Both of them can feel the tension vibrating between them, and it is not of a positive nature. Yet they let it go, and they both wilt, practically visibly, and finally Frederick looks at Will again and Will, after a few long moments, is able to return the gaze.

"I'm not relenting," says Will, softly. "If I had some more control, I'd leave this mess to them. Frederick, you have to trust me."

Swallowing hard, Frederick nods.

 **XI.** **The Genius—**

"Tell me about Starling, Jack."

"I wouldn't know where to start. What do you want to know?"

"Something to prepare me."

"She's very serious—the kind of woman that's always focused on something you can't hope to understand. She's witty when you don't expect it—one of those dry humor types, like Frederick, only funnier."

"Jack—"

"I think you're funny enough, Frederick. Continue, Jack."

"I've a hunch she was more affected by this than she's letting on, but I don't think she'd appreciate sympathy of any kind. She's a lot like you with her uncanny intuition. She's objective, though, _unlike_ you, and plenty grounded. She had a tough life, she's a little rough around the edges. Sometimes I think I understand her and then she says something and it's obvious again that she's beyond a lot of people in certain ways."

"Sounds like a hell of an agent."

"That's the understatement of the century, Will."

 **XII.** **—and the Mortal Instruments**

He once knew a girl that looked like her, in the old days of high school where the most exciting thing that happened to him was the unavoidable move to the next town and the next high school and the occasional rendezvous—most often of a platonic nature—with some unassuming student that he would be able to forget, a plain Jane or Joe that wouldn't haunt his dreams and soul for a long time to come. The girl's name is lost in his memory. All he remembers is that she was kind to him on his first day of his freshman year. She smiled at him. It made all the difference in the world.

Clarice Starling, like that girl he knew in high school, has a natural light brown shade of skin coveted by pale woman with tanning lotions lying in the sun in the middle of August. Her hair is a storm of frizzy brown ringlets several shades darker than her skin; her eyes—they are tough, the shade of leather, bright. The resemblance ends there and Will exits his odd nostalgia and sees Clarice Starling—really sees her—for the first time. He is sitting in a kitchen chair, Frederick is next to him, Jack is standing behind them. The kitchen is small. Safe houses generally aren't very impressive, but they do the job. The floors are clean, at least—white and orange checkered squares—and the water is in functioning condition. Quality is not imperative in the case of survival.

The screen probably doesn't do her justice, but she is pretty. There is a very light smattering of freckles spread sporadically over her nose and cheeks, so close to her skin color that they might not even be there at all to this small audience's eyes if her webcam didn't happen to be of the high-definition variety. Only her collarbone and up is visible. She is wearing a black blazer and a navy blue shirt underneath it. Her lipstick is dark and other than that she wears no other makeup. She just came from something official.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Graham," she says, her voice tinted with the slightest hint of forced friendliness. Will notices because he is hyperaware of her existence. She is polite but for his sake she is extending the arm of friendship. It's temporary, though. He didn't before, but now he is regretting not being able to see her in person. This woman touched Hannibal the way he has so rarely been touched. In fact, Will knows the exact individuals who have touched Hannibal in such a way—Abigail Hobbs, Bedelia de Maurier, and himself.

And now Starling.

"Likewise, Agent Starling, although I'd have liked to meet you under better circumstances," Will says, and he tells himself to refrain from fidgeting. Eye contact is easier to achieve through a computer screen but somehow knowing that Starling is, for all intent and purposes, a true equal in the eyes of someone like Hannibal, sets all of his nerves on high alert. "This is my partner, Dr. Frederick Chilton."

"Good afternoon, Dr. Chilton."

"It is a pleasure, Agent Starling. Welcome to the battlefield."

At that she smiles, slightly, sort of thrown back in a way.

Will takes a subtle breath, flexing his fingers underneath the table until Frederick places a hand over one of his own to still him. Nervous habits all around.

"I see no need to beat around the bush," says Will, "to, er, put it lightly. Pleasantries are—well—congratulations on solving your first case and becoming a full agent. You've done well, but I have to get to the point. I've been briefed and from what I understand, Hannibal Lecter offered his aid in exchange for information."

"That's right," says Clarice.

"I have to ask," Will takes another breath. He tells himself he's nervous for no reason at all but he knows perfectly well. Speaking so openly about Hannibal has been something limited to only Frederick and Alana and Freddie and Margot and, when he wants to talk about something other than how he wishes Will would let go his so-called 'grief spiel': Jack. A complete stranger? It's daunting. "Did he request any information regarding myself, Dr. Frederick Chilton, Dr. Alana Bloom, Freddie Lounds, Jack Crawford, or any other living survivors that you were able to provide?"

Clarice answers without a single moment of visible contemplation. "Yes. He asked how you were doing and wanted to know what your face looked like now. I was unable to show him the photograph he wanted due to the bar set in place restricting information about you from reaching him. However, I will admit that I did set aside my conscience later on. He would not offer any more insight until I told him about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"I explained your lack of presence in the media and my lack of personal knowledge about you up until the death of Francis Dolarhyde and recounted what I recalled from my readings."

"Which readings, exactly?" He flexes his shoulders with the sole intention of leaning forward in an unconscious visible show of curiosity and interest before thinking better of it.

"A few essays," she says, "and newspaper articles, though those didn't offer much. I resorted to paraphrasing what I recalled from the book _Maneater_ by Freddie Lounds."

"Which mentioned, in detail—"

"Your relationship with Dr. Frederick Chilton and your struggle with PTSD as well as the extent of your injury. He wouldn't accept a simple explanation and was able to tell when I wasn't telling him all I knew. Perhaps it was an invasion of privacy?" She turns her head to the right slightly, still looking at the computer screen. Her lack of a candid apology is refreshing.

Will is silent, and then he turns to Frederick and feels the icky, unfamiliar relief flood over him like the warmest but itchiest blanket available on a cold winter night. "Agent Starling, you've done us all an invaluable favor."

He looks back at the computer screen and, for the first time, there is a slight amount of confusion etched onto her sharp features.

"I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure I—"

"All you offered him was her view. Lounds has a reputation for elaboration the truth but in her memoir she did not give any reason to doubt her claims."

He's doing his little thing again, where he speaks too fast, says too little, doesn't elaborate enough. But understanding is dawning upon Clarice, he can see it, she's fast. As for Frederick, and Jack—who both say nothing, as it was agreed that this was to be a discussion between Will and Clarice, without their interjection—he can tell that they are still trying to really get leap onto his train of thought.

"He won't target any of you," Clarice says, "because he believes he has already done enough."

"Yes." Will nods, and he turns to Frederick. "You understand now, don't you? And you, Jack? He's not being merciful—merciful would be killing us, putting us out of our misery. He thinks he's ruined us to the point where we are caught in a vicious circle in which we only continue destroying ourselves."

"He believes there's nothing more he can do, then," says Jack, the first thing he's said since he greeted Clarice as she answered the video call and announced that he was passing her over to Will.

"And what of you, Agent Starling?" Frederick says, frowning. "Will he target you?"

"I feel safe here at the bureau," she says, although she sounds a tad different now, when she speaks. "I'll be fine. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, but I don't think Dr. Lecter is currently anywhere near here."

"No, you're right," Will says. "It's likely that he's left the country."

A doorbell rings. Clarice looks to her right, and twists her mouth into a conflicted gesture. "I'm sorry, but I think that's my roommate. I'll be right back."

"It's fine," says Will. "I think we've established enough. I plan on being on the next flight to Virginia. Thank you for your time, Agent Starling. You have been invaluable."

Will stands then, and motions for Jack to take his spot, which he does. He's not satisfied with the call, Will thinks. It's all in the tight line of his lip and the way he sits, all stiff and whatnot. Will can see Clarice's face from where he is standing, albeit not very clearly, and he thinks, for a second, that she is about to try to bargain for more time. He is proven wrong when she says nothing.

Jack tells her something, but Will isn't listening. He holds a hand out to Frederick, who stands up and dares to smile up at him. Will returns the curve of lips.

They're going home.

 **XIII.** **Grief**

 **1.** **Denial**

Frederick looks over at Will as they take their business class seats on the moderately crowded airplane and says, "This is not happening."

He thought they were both doing well coping now that they know they're safe. Will raises an eyebrow and doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what would be appropriate.

"After everything," Frederick says, closing his eyes and pointing his face away from Will. He leans back into his seat and takes a long, dragging sigh, a throaty one that sounds more like a groan. "After everything I cannot seem to bring myself into a more comfortable mental state."

After a moment, he adds, "What will we make for dinner when we get home?"

This is something that Will can play along with. "Let's just pick up something after leaving the airport."

"No," The older man shakes his head, resolute and set in concrete. "I want to cook. I need to do something. Anything."

"Tofu, then. Or penne with tomato sauce. Or—whatever you feel like making."

"Penne with tomato is simple, let's do that."

 **2.** **Anger**

"If he comes back, I'll kill him."

"He won't be coming back."

"You act so sure, Will, and if I were you I'm sure _I'd_ act sure but I'm not _you_ and I'm _not_ sure and damn him, I'm going to shoot him if he thinks he can just saunter up and try to shoot _me_ first."

And Will only chuckles.

 **3.** **Bargaining**

They have been on the plane for two hours.

Frederick, yawning, flicks off the television screen placed in front of him. There is nothing worth watching being offered by this airline. Neither he nor Will feels much like making idle talk. Either way, they are comfortable in silence.

After a moment, he says, "Just a few more days on this planet. A week, at most. That's all I'd need. A week during which he is not out on the streets. But to continue on like this, not knowing what he's doing out there? How can we do that?"

 **4.** **Depression**

A hand seeks out Will's and takes it, gingerly, trembling. It is all that Will can do to keep himself from trembling with it; he rubs a thumb over the other's thumb. When Frederick leans into his shoulder, Will welcomes it and, having the window seat, turns and looks out the glass.

He still hates planes.

 **5.** **Acceptance**

"It's good to be home."

 **XIV. Stop Me If You Think You've Heard This One Before**

Freddie Lounds came to them roughly two months or so after they had come to terms with their desire for each other, on a surprisingly sunny January day during which the angry yellow light contradicted somewhat with Wolf Trap's sullen white landscape. Her hair, red and crazy against the backdrop of oddly bright winter, was sprinkled with snowflakes that had settled in there as if they belonged to those locks of hair, had always belonged to those locks of hair, and always intended to belong to those locks of hair. Her eyes, blue and wide like that of a mother doe looking in on her children, were the picture of vigorous.

(Will remembers when her eyes did not possess that volume of warmth; he remembers, with stunning clarity, how her eyes were once pockets of a hell-driven evil, for lack of a better descriptive word. Even now she is, to some extent, frosty and sort of rough. But trauma, being trauma, has a way of changing one's viewpoint. He can tolerate her now. Sometimes he can even say, without lying, that he likes her.)

Alana comes with her. Like Frederick, she is no longer entirely reliant on a cane and does not bring it down with her, although Will can see that it is in the car. She has always been the type to favor being safe over being sorry.

Freddie Lounds sniffs the air and wraps her nose into wrinkles instantly. "I've never liked dogs."

Blasphemy, Will thinks, and he hands her the half-finished manuscript she shoved into his hands upon entering while Alana uttered a dozen or so apologies and made a point of asserting, in a stage whisper, that she had come purely for the sake of supervision. "Is this necessary?"

His dogs are a little rabid today. If dogs are intelligent—and Will is willing to testify that yes, they are intelligent—then they must still remember that Freddie Lounds was once the reason for a borderline significant amount of anguish in Will's life. They must remember, at least somewhere in the depths of their strong bones, that Will had once hated her.

The journalist takes the papers, smiling cheekily. "Will, I am a constant seeker of the truth. The world has the right to know about Hannibal Lecter, and they have the right to know about him from a reliable primary source."

She is unbelievable. What a witch, spouting hypocrisy and believing it to be a river of martyrdom on her behalf. Yet Will knows that he owes her a lifetime of favors for aiding him and the FBI in their search for the Red Dragon, and an even larger lifetime for almost dying in the hands of the Dragon himself. "What do you want to know, then?"

"I have a publisher interested already, but we're going to have to act with haste if I'm going to make my self-imposed deadline, " says Freddie, "so what do you say I email you the interview questions, and you mull over them? I'll come over in two days and you can respond with the pure truth. You promised me the exclusive rights to your story, as I'm sure you remember, prior to my agreeing to faking my death. And let's not touch upon the subject of Francis Dolarhyde. Just know that I'm in this to tell the truth, and you can help me out with that."

Will blinks inquisitively and says, "Freddie, this is a manuscript for your _own_ story."

"That's a misjudgment," she chides, shaking her head. "I'm the one telling the story, yes, but the story is about _all_ of us. Aren't we an 'Us' now?"

"Debatable."

She ignores him and continues. "Alana has agreed to give an interview and I'll be asking Dr. Chilton about this as soon he comes downstairs. Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller are meeting me tomorrow for coffee and an interview. I've got several other interviews lined up, and you're the missing piece that is much obliged to give me what I want."

There are no valid dice to throw here without it being morally wrong. He can't argue. "You have my contact information. Send me what you need and I'll be 'much obliged' to fill your request."

"You won't be disappointed, Will," says Freddie, a satisfied smile carving itself onto her lips. "I think you'll find that I'm very good at making my point, and I'll do much to enlighten the world."

He doesn't think that Hannibal Lecter needs his story told, but he doesn't say that. Instead, he pets Winston's yellow head because he is nuzzling against the legs of his pants, and then he leans forward on the kitchen chair and grasps his mug of hot tea from where it sits on the wooden dining table. "Do what you deem fit, Freddie."

"I always do," she assures him.

Both Will and Frederick—after the latter had come downstairs from his unexpected nap, murmuring anxious apologies and offering both Alana and Freddie warm welcomes—had openly exclaimed Freddie Lounds and her book were nothing but nuisances.

"I don't see why she's going to try and explain him. I really don't." Frederick had shaken his head and taken a sip of wine, running his fingers across Will's forehead and into the soft hair on his head, and Will had adjusted his position on Frederick's shoulder to make the action easier for him. "Why is he a cannibal? The whole world wants to know but it _is_ really very simple. There was a recent marriage between siblings in his family line. Perhaps more than one. At least two, I'm guessing. It's a terrible problem in some remote places in Europe, you know, or at least I think that's what I heard."

"Is that your theory?" An amused grin had found its way onto Will's face.

"Yes, actually, and it is brilliant."

Strange are the things that turn out to be the reason one is left alive.

 **XV.** **The Domesticity Act**

Defined purpose is so unnecessarily difficult to come across. It was easier when he used to wake up in the morning and know that he had a class to teach and bleary-eyed students to bore or entertain or, on the rare occasion, genuinely inspire and actually inform. It was even easier when he was a little more stable and regularly acted as a criminal profiler. Those days, however, have come and gone like the brief but sweet months of summer that turn one's soul lighter for a time and then slowly disappear, taking with them everything that ever seemed right with the world.

Will repeatedly tells himself that he can't go back. His reasoning aligns with Frederick's reasoning for sticking to the wonders of settled life and being careful about how far he delves into psychiatry: it's far too close to a myriad of experiences he has come to terms with but doesn't quite want to dwell on, and being close to that environment will only cause unnecessary dwelling.

All the same, he does miss that sense of purpose. He never really realized he even had that sense until he lost it. Retirement isn't exactly what it's cut out to be. Do most people know that? He certainly hadn't.

He has Frederick. Most days, that's more than enough. In actuality, he is still sometimes incredulous that he even has Frederick. This wasn't meant to become his life—he never imagined being able to settle with someone the way he seems to have settled with this man, five years his senior and fickle to the core and beautiful at all times of the day.

And he has Alana and Freddie, with the former remaining his most trusted confidante next to his lover. Some days he even has Jack.

On other, much rarer days, he has Margot, who comes to him when she is feeling nostalgic or can no longer stand being in the house with her invalid brother, although their conversations are brisk and mostly orchestrated and kept busy by her steady stream of rapid speech before they come to a quick end—instigated by her, always—and she leaves and Will is left knowing that he won't be seeing her at all for another several months.

He socializes. He has friends. Enough to count on both hands with fingers left over, yes, but he's never been good at that kind of thing anyway and is quite comfortable with this arrangement, thank you, he doesn't need much more than a few close comrades.

It's not like he isn't doing anything. He isn't solving murders or teaching the minds of the future generation but he's doing something. He goes fishing regularly and sells his catches to the local farmer's market for a modest but comfortable sum of cash because Frederick is a vegetarian due to circumstance and he can't exactly eat all of it on his own. He fixes boats sometimes, because he did some repairs for the parents of one of his students once and word got around Baltimore and Virginia and now he seems to be one of the guys to call when something goes awry with the family yacht or grandpa's old sailboat. He doesn't see a therapist anymore, he tried it for a few months after his face became the tamer half of a surrealist painting and it was tedious and ineffective and he hasn't had stellar experiences with therapists anyway; but he takes a pill every morning for the chemical imbalance in his brain that has caused clinical depression in him since he was an adolescent boy who drove himself to sleep with incessant worrying and misery on the nights when sleep didn't evade him. He shops for groceries and light bulbs and over-the-counter medicines. He looks forward to his lover arriving home from a home visit to a patient or an excursion to the local vegan corner store and it is nice to have something to look forward to during the day. He kisses someone good morning and he kisses someone goodnight and sometimes he kisses someone all over, because sex isn't his favorite thing in the world and he can only enjoy it if he loves the person, and he's found someone he loves and he doesn't mind kissing him all over. He goes biking, if he's feeling the urge to do something. He cooks dinner and he watches television and he reads mystery novels for the sake of solving the mystery by the fifth chapter at the latest and other types of literature for the sake of keeping himself busy.

Getting back into that is difficult after a taste of the old life has come back to haunt him.

Frederick has caught on by their seventh day back home. He sits on the couch one afternoon, next to Will, when suddenly Will has had enough and can't bear it anymore. With a sharp intake of air, he slams the cheap psychological thriller he has been reading for the past hour shut and sets it on the little table next to him.

"What?" Frederick closes his own book with far more calm than Will managed. "Talk to me, Will, won't you talk to me? What is it?"

It makes much more sense to lie, Will knows, but he can't. He says, with conviction, "This."

When he sees that Frederick is about to say something, probably a request for some clarification, he stands up and gestures manically. "We can't just go back to before, Frederick. I'm being pathetic, I know, but I'm on fire all the time and I can't put myself out."

"Goodness knows I'm perpetually on edge now as well. What do you propose we do about it?" says Frederick, shaking his head and leaning back into the plush cushions on the sofa. He thinks better of it and stands, and their eyes meet. Will sees it in him, too—the unbalanced contours are pierced into the various points of Frederick's face just as they are imprinted in his own flesh. He observes it, can witness it plainly, and it only serves to upset him further. They can't go on like this and he says so, throwing his arms around again, unsure of what to even do with them.

"We just can't," he says, finally. "We can't go on like this anymore. I want to go to sleep."

"Then let's go to bed."

"I'm not tired."

"Darling, work with me here. Please."

Puck, a small mutt of a dog with a permanent sort of cross-eyed expression, is suddenly pawing at Frederick's foot. Will sees him persistently rubbing his little paws all over Frederick's socked foot and it breaks him out of his rage. He still wants to scream, but in a different way. With a watered down look of anger and frustration on his face, Will looks back at Frederick and finds the courage within himself to take a few steps forward. That is all he does and the other man gets the message with ease, quickly meeting him in the middle and wrapping his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," says Will.

"So am I," is Frederick's reply, his right hand seeking out the nape of Will's neck and taking its rightful place there. "You want to move, I know. I can't stand being here either, Will, I can't stand resuming our roles as dearly beloved almost husband and husband and pretending like everything is normal but all I can do is hold you and nothing more. Sorry."

"I'm fine with you holding me." Will has a frown in his tone, his voice blurred because he is pressing his face in the crook of the shorter man's neck. "I like it. I love you. I'm fine."

"There are better states to be in than merely 'fine.'"

"There are also worse states."

Silence, and then, "Well. Yes. You're right about that. What are we going to do?"

They end up going for a long walk through the fields and around the perimeter of the woods behind Will's home and the entire time that they walk, sometimes hand in hand and sometimes simply nudging each other's shoulders, Will's legs are vibrating with the urge to take off running.

 **XVI. Birth of a Patron Saint**

In retrospect, it should have happened much sooner.

Will gets the call in early January, two days after the New Year celebration has come to stay for a day and then run away quickly, apologetically, promising to return next year, definitely! The cell phone rings three times in his pocket before he can pick it up, pressing the answer button without glancing at the caller ID. He is taking his dogs out for a snow-ridden morning walk and because Frederick is out running some sort of errand—he left early, pressing a kiss and a few words to Will's brow before dashing off, calling out something about a special sort of bread he can only get at a certain bakery at a certain time, he's the sort of man that lives for that kind of rarity and exclusivity—he assumes it is him, calling to ask if he needs something from the grocer or the health nut corner store that he goes wild about.

This is why he is surprised when he hears the female voice on the other end of the line. Only for that reason. He has, after all, been expecting this for quite some time.

"Good morning, Mr. Graham," is Clarice Starling's greeting.

"Agent Starling." Will raises an eyebrow for the sake of his own tendency for novelties and looks around, landing his gaze on the house in the distance. His house. It looks small from this place he stands on now. "It's about time. Happy new year."

"I thought I'd give you some time to settle," she says, taking it all in stride. "Happy new year. Are you free at all this week? The holidays are a hectic time."

The fact that she fully expected him to fully expect her is what causes him to tell her, without a second thought, "I'm free today."

She gives him an address for a café and a meeting time and when he does not object to either of these, she signs off with a quick "See you" before the line goes dead.

By the time Will has reached his home again, dogs in tow, Frederick is pulling into the driveway. The older man sees him and gives him a flippant wave as he pulls to a stop. With a large brown bag in his arms, he exits the car and walks over to him. The day is tainted with the almost there but not quite breeze of calm winter mornings. Slight rustling can be heard from the leaves of the thick wood beyond the expansive field. Snowflakes fall sporadically. There is a smattering of them on Frederick's dark hair as he trots toward Will and Will is sure that there is a similar smattering on the top of his own head.

"Good morning," Frederick says, with the slight huff of someone who rustled themselves from sleep far too soon and threw themselves into activity immediately. "I've got bread."

"I can see that."

"It was very hard to get." With that, he grants Will a quick kiss on the cheek while simultaneously patting Winston, who is panting heavily from the walk, on the head. "I stood in a long line for an hour and listened to two old wives complain about how little sex they have, although that was mildly entertaining. Mildly."

"What a strenuous life you lead," teases Will, patting the other's cheek.

"You mock me."

"Only because I am hopelessly devoted to you," Will deadpans, and he grins at the ridiculed expression that comes over Frederick with those words. Cutting the fluff is a necessary evil, though, and he sighs and straightens up from the almost crouched position his shoulders settle into when he is melting into Frederick's words. "Anyway, er—this is sudden, but I have somewhere to go."

"Oh?" Now Frederick turns around and heads towards the front door, still holding on tightly to his desperately coveted bag of bread. "What came up? Does another sad old man need his sailboat fixed?"

"No." Will doesn't know how to tell Frederick the truth all of a sudden. The words are sticky and gooey and uncomfortable in his mouth. They feel like an ooze of oddly textured mass as he forces them out. "I've arranged a meeting with Agent Clarice Starling."

This renders Frederick completely still. The keys and keychain dangle in his hand. It is the only keychain Frederick owns, Will knows, and it is a tiny faux gold Cuban flag. Will can only see the back of him, higher than he is as he stands on the porch steps while Will remains directly in front of them. It is enough to take note of the tense knots taking over his joints.

"Why?"

Why, indeed?

Will clears his throat and looks up at the cotton clouds. "Hannibal is picky. He plays favorites. I feel compelled to provide her with some context."

"I don't want you to do that."

His back is still the only thing Will can see.

"Frederick," Will begins, and then stops. He begins again. "Frederick, this—"

"—is something I do not want you to do."

" _Frederick_ —"

"Don't strain yourself." And now Frederick turns around, and the storm on his face is a blast from an age of the past. It is so cold and so shocking that Will steps back and for a moment he can only think of a stone figure in a stone asylum snarling at him, standing in front of him while he issues out a series of psychiatric treatments, a stone figure sitting on a stone bench, a stone figure with a smug look on its face, saying things like _you are a murderer and you deserve to be imprisoned_.

"This is nothing." Isn't it? "It's business, for all intent and purposes. What else can I do?"

"You can stop feeding your savior complex," and the way that Frederick says that, all bite and with all the intensity of a stab from a sharpened stake, is enough to instill a sea of reproach in Will's heart. "What responsibility do you have to offer a comforting shoulder to someone who put themselves in the line of fire?"

( _Didn't you do that for me?)_

"You're being irrational," Will says, practically choking on that statement. "What the hell do you mean? 'Savior complex'? Don't spout bullshit. You're not my psychiatrist, Frederick, you're my lover, et cetera."

"Two years, Will!" Frederick, in a frenzy, holds up two fingers in an arrangement commonly used for preaching about peace, something that Will finds ironic in his daze. "That is how long we have been doing all that is humanly possible to separate ourselves from the mess our lives were thrown into as a result of Hannibal's dietary habits. Two months is how long we have been festering in depression since he escaped. I know you and I know you want to save everyone and I know you are going to let this affect you and if you go talk to that woman all you are doing is effectively pitting yourself right back to the start."

"Do you think of me as some kind of broken child?" Will abandons all reason and his voice takes on a quality of animosity.

"A child? Of course not. No." With a throaty sigh, Frederick flicks at his brow and abruptly turns around, sharply, and opens the door with a swift skill and precision that can only be called up during dire times of frustration and ire dispositions. Will clomps up the porch steps, his feet hitting the wood hard, his legs taking him two steps at a time so that it only takes two steps to hoist himself up to the raised porch and then he enters the house in a rage, his pupils blown out and his brow knitted together. Frederick has made his way into the kitchen and Will follows, deliberate strength in the way he walks.

"You have no authority over my actions."

"I never claimed otherwise." Frederick looks at him, crosses his arms, and swaggers past him with such willful force that Will is pressed firmly to the edge of the doorway. The spot where his shoulder collides with the solid wood anguishes with a prolonged soreness that is partially mental and does naught but feed Will's furor.

They find themselves standing by the front door.

"You didn't ask me to accompany you," says Frederick, accusingly. He is vulnerable and doing his best to mask it with fury. Will finds himself not caring.

"This isn't your problem."

"Right. I forgot. Forgive me." The sarcasm drips off Frederick's voice, so ugly and thick that Will is struck by a heavy strain of resentment. "You are a messiah on a mission. Go."

There is some relief to be found in this fit of antagonism they are both having. They haven't had a single explosive argument in their time together. Not a single one. Maybe they were building up to this moment. Maybe they were never meant to work and this is the end. Will is delirious and doesn't want to think. More than ever, now, he wishes he were capable of flipping an off switch and calling it quits until all negative tidings have subsided. At the same time, he wants to bask in this. He is finally feeling something truly explosive, even if it is a dangerous welling up of violence and urges he hasn't felt since he was under the influence of a now famed serial killer.

For the first time in two months he feels alive. It is a guttural feeling, like the rumbling of a ravenous bear gearing up for the necessary act of killing the weakest link in the doe herd. He finds himself stretching his fingers as if nursing and preparing his knuckles before the blow of bone will collide against them at their own will.

"Go," repeats Frederick, and with that he foots it, just like that, clambering up the stairs before Will can say anything else.

He does go.

But not because he was told to.

 **XVII.** **The Point of Tangency**

His own thoughts have always been more than enough to occupy him, to ravage him, to tear him apart.

He doesn't need people to add to that campaign.

Ideally, he doesn't want to break up with Frederick. Unfortunately, he has fallen in love and he isn't sure how to force himself out of it. Something tells him forcing himself out of it wouldn't even be a possibility. The fact that he is sitting in a busy café, drinking a large mug of black coffee and feeling both miserable and righteous all at once, however, is proof that the misery they brewed has already managed to pierce a large splinter between them.

How would he even go about carrying out the awful, awful, awful deed? The last time he broke up with someone, both he and the boy were in tears, clutching at each other, sixteen years old and thinking that it was the end of the world because Will was moving away to spend his senior year of high school elsewhere because Will's father had no idea how to keep a steady image or a decent reputation no matter where they went. Other than that, it has always been the other person with the frown on their face and the fateful, solemn phrase: "We need to talk." This isn't always a problem. Will is the first one to admit that sometimes he forgets to add anything to a relationship and eventually the other person grows tired of being the only one to put anything out for grabs. Most of the time he would've eventually ended it himself anyway, it's just that the occasion never presented itself and he had other things on his mind.

Alright. Maybe he doesn't want to break up with Frederick, so maybe he won't. No, actually, he definitely won't. The alternative hits him hard: Say that he drives back home after this and finds that Frederick is gone, his car is gone, his clothes and books and records and lovely kisses are gone, and the only thing he is left with is the smell of his aftershave and probably the cane he always forgets to take with him?

The table of his choice is placed in the very back of the café. This choice is not a result of a conscious need or desire for enclosure; rather, he tends to gravitate to such inconspicuous spaces without a single contemplation. He releases a large amount of air from his nose and closes his eyes, leaning his cheek into the palm of his hand and then resting that hand against the red and yellow checkered wallpaper to his right. This is the type of café that people go to when they are either lonely or planning on meeting someone for something impersonal. Does his own business here resonate with that? That's a gray area.

This is what he is thinking when a voice shakes him out of his less than cathartic ponderings.

"Mr. Graham," says a voice, sounding like a flittering melody on a flute, the low notes and the high notes combining, harmonizing. "Mr. Graham?"

Blinking, he looks up and sees that Clarice Starling has taken the seat across from him.

"Excuse me," he says, "I'm not quite in my right mind."

Saying that reminds him of Frederick. This is unfortunate.

"It's fine." She is already holding a mug of coffee. Both of her hands are wrapped around the mint green ceramic and a hazelnut waft emits from the open top. He hadn't even noticed her coming in. Being out of practice is becoming a nuisance and he wouldn't be able to formulate an explanation for it without wanting to choke himself for being so flexible in his opinions. "I've not been in 'quite the right mind' either."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs and taps his fingers on his own mint green ceramic cup of caffeine. "That tends to be an inevitable withdrawal symptom."

She is significantly silent for a good minute before she finally says, with an alert yet dazed ambience in her voice, "I hadn't thought of it that way."

At least she catches on to his undefined approach with ease.

In person she is another entity of her own entirely, so dramatically that Will silently swears to never take video calls as a form of acceptable first meetings again. She is a lot smaller than he expected, there is no kinder or plainer way to say that. Her height is somewhere between five foot two and five foot three. This is startling to take in. She stands perhaps half an inch below the height Frederick stands at. She is not all bone, although her collar bone is jutting and distinct against her brown skin. Even in her garb of choice—a slightly elegant royal blue sweater that tells him she has somewhere to go after this, he is perfectly aware that she wouldn't take the care to dress up for his sake; a pair of leather ankle boots and khaki pants that perfectly outline the shape of her legs—she still maintains the air of someone who is trained in the art of killing. Her hair is pulled up into a loose bun, the type of hairstyle he imagines she often has to endure frizz for later, all for the sake of eliminating unnecessary distractions while practicing how to shoot or taking some long, tedious exam typical of the academy. She is all curves, the image of strong and well-managed femininity. Her average weight and slight muscle are the result of the physical training all agents have to go through.

She looks a hell of a lot better off than he does.

But there is no mistaking the rotting reek of death's open door that enters with her. She is still raw, he realizes. Sure, she's taken it better than he might have expected if he weren't sitting here and Agent Clarice Starling was just another invention of the media that he wouldn't spare even a first thought for, let alone a spacious amount of his time.

The way she looks at him from across the small orange table underneath her long eyelashes just about kills him. It is expectant. He wishes she wouldn't look at him that way. There are a lot of things he doesn't do anymore and fulfilling expectations is one of them.

"Different people, different interpretations." Will takes a long and generous sip of coffee. "I had the misfortune of considering him a friend once. I don't know what you went through, but that's why we're here."

"To be honest, Mr. Graham, I don't actually know why we're here." Starling is ever so slightly resigned. It shows through her staid mask. This is the first thing she has said that has surprised him. "I'm sorry. I called you out of the blue and expected you to be fine with that. My apologies, really."

He affords himself a handful of seconds to contemplate before asking, "Do you believe he is insane?"

Her reply is carefully worded. "Insanity is an abstract concept. 'Men will always be mad, and those that think they can cure them are the maddest of them all', Mr. Graham. I've always sided with Voltaire, but I majored in psychology so I can't exactly go around saying that."

"That isn't what I asked."

"No. Yes. Well—no." Her voice is firm now. "No. I don't. He never said one insane thing to me. Not once. Sometimes he made more sense than some of my classmates or professors. That's why I'm so bothered. Are you understanding this? Sometimes I think I understand it and then I realize I don't, not really."

She's an actor, he realizes. Starling isn't one for courtesies, he can see that much in the formal way that she speaks—she's not here for anyone but herself.

"You caught him," Starling says in an off-topic continuation. "You gave up a lot for the sake of his incarceration. I'm sorry that he's gotten away."

Will is silent for the sake of his train of thought. She's no easy being to process even by his standards. The similarities between her and Hannibal are startling and he wonders if Jack ever picked up on those similarities or if he was so fixated on turning her into the next young and incredible prodigy, a bureau babe with doe eyes destined to come out of their time with broken bones and a soldier's worth of bullet wounds and blood-stained hands and a white pharmacy-issued prescription bag filled with orange bottles, that it completely slipped by his notice. Thinking about what might have happened if the likeness had been processed is an idea he realizes very quickly he does not like thinking about. It is only after the meditation of a few seconds that he decides what to say.

"He acts the part of courtesy's child. He would choose to believe he is the embodiment of grace and eloquence and in a sense I'll admit he is. His tone never wavers. Have you always done that, Agent Starling, or is that a habit you picked up from our new mutual acquaintance?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Graham."

"You're doing it again," he says, a dry chuckle shoveling its way out from the bottom of his throat.

"How would you have me speak?" Not even a hint of annoyance in her deadpan. He's impressed, although that question is really a statement and that statement is really a challenge. Starling won't be commanded by him. That's fine. He isn't likely to accept commands from her, either.

"I'm not him," he says, daring to make direct eye contact for a span of several seconds. "I understand, Agent Starling—it's not that you need someone but you would like for someone to justify your experience and I'm the only live option you have."

He's never been one to turn away from a soul in need, he thinks bitterly, and Clarice Starling is not going to become the singular exception.

It's been awhile since he's felt sympathy, not just empathy, although he's feeling the latter rather strongly as well. Slowly, uncertainly, he continues with, "And that's why I'm here. It's not exactly easy to find someone who understands something like this. But he saw something in you. You're special to him."

Her words are smooth like pearls from an oyster and he hates luxuries but he doesn't hate her, not at the moment. She says, "So are you."

"He won't come back for us," Will tells her. "I know he isn't coming back for me. As for you? You're fine, for now. Probably for a long time."

"I know that, too." Maybe it's just him, but there is a new edge to her voice. "Call it women's intuition or a good academy education. Another thing I know is that I am not crazy. I'm pragmatic, you know, I've always been fond of logic. It's just what you said. I don't need someone to validate this, but I would like—how do I phrase this? I've a feeling you already know—I'd just like to know, with certainty, that other 'not deranged' people have seen things his way. Not all things, just some things."

"I don't know if you can count me as a 'not deranged' person," Will scoffs. He can't help it. "In all seriousness, though, I understand what you mean. It's therapeutic to hear it in person. I still saw something in him after I discovered his homicidal habits. He's not all that typical. What we get from that isn't all that typical, either."

"Agent Crawford said you refer to his victims as pawns."

"Sure." He can't deny that. "We all were. You and I were different types."

"It was liberating." She is like a church-goer confessing their sins, shaking at the altar and begging the priest to accept them. "I've spent my entire life calculating every single one of my actions. Being a woman with big law enforcement dreams is significant motivation to always stay on your toes."

There isn't much to say to that, he thinks.

For a time they are content to sit in relative silence, with only the bustle and blow of the café around them to tickle their ear drums.

"You can go, if you have to." She speaks without warning and Will almost starts out of surprise.

"What makes you think I have to go?"

"You've looked at your watch close to eight or nine times." Perturbed—that is how he feels about the fact that she is so unapologetically frank when it comes to these things. "The door has been subject to your inspection at least five times."

"It's not the lack of eye contact, then."

"I'm aware of a certain few of your habits, Mr. Graham. I also know that you don't fear a sudden ambush at the hand of Dr. Lecter."

"What is your final conclusion, then?"

"Your partner doesn't approve of you being here."

"How did you come to a conclusion as specific as that?"

"It's the most obvious one. You're being held accountable to someone, not something. You've checked your phone, too—six times. You put your hand on the pocket of your jeans." Something clicks in her and the mechanical, effortless flow of her deductions cuts off and becomes a partially nervous strain. "I'm speaking out of turn."

Will, fractionally incredulous, says, "Impressive."

"A lifetime of observation, not talent."

"Whatever it is, you're right." He leans back in his seat and feels the need to add, "It's not that Frederick is fearful. You've got to understand, Agent Starling, that in the four years since Hannibal's imprisonment I've worked very hard to cut my ties to this and so has he. I don't mind a taste of the old life. I thought I would but I don't. He does. That's all."

Any other person might apologize, might act embarrassed, might say something like _I'm sorry I'm so sorry have I caused trouble_? but she does not and it is appreciated.

Instead she says, "Imagine giving birth to a child only to have him end up a cannibal."

For some reason this makes him smile, even if it is just the faintest caricature of a positive upturn of lips. "I don't think he had much parental guidance growing up."

"Maybe that's his problem."

The coffee or the atmosphere or the fact that he's been going through some form of existential crisis for a while now makes him tack on a side note to that, a sort of annotation or footnote in a long drone of a lifetime transcription. "My father was more like an absent guardian and my mom left when I was young. Indulge me, Starling, is there a pattern here?"

"My dad was murdered and then my mom sent me to live with my aunt," she says, cautiously. "I ran away. I wasn't with her long."

"The general consensus has always been that there is a method to his madness." Will chuckles and it sounds strange, almost alien. He's okay with it. "There's a pattern. He likes the ones that are broken."

"Broken," Starling echoes, "but not by standard definition."

"That's one way to put it."

"I'm not wrong."

"No, you're not." Will leans back in his seat. "A stallion will never reach its potential if it is never broken. We're stallions, Starling. Was his conditioning successful?"

Starling picks up the coffee mug, which by now contains only a small amount of liquid that has gone lukewarm, and takes a tiny swig that empties the cup completely. Then she sets it down and looks at Will directly in the eye in such a way that he is unable to refuse this privilege to her. "That's something I do not want to dwell on."

"I apologize," and when he says that, he means it. "Look: I think you're going to be fine. You'll move on. Look at all this acclaim you're receiving. You're going to save more lives and be just fine. Don't worry."

"Can you look me in the eye and repeat that, word for word?" The jagged curve of her voice does not unnerve him. "I know I'm going to be fine. I just can't believe it. Very little makes sense to me lately."

"The best thing to do is not actively do anything." Will is being completely genuine. "I tried to do too much, at first. No point in it. I'm sure you're more than capable, although I don't exactly know you all that well."

"Let's keep it that way," Starling declares. "Forgive me, Mr. Graham, but I don't want to know what Dr. Lecter saw in you and I'm sure you have no interest in finding out what he saw in me."

A new itch is growing underneath his skin. "Agreed. Starling, let me tell you. Deep conversation and coffee is nice and all, but there's a bar across the street and I haven't gotten drunk in years. Now seems like a good time for liquid happiness."

The gaze she holds is unwavering.

 **XVIII.** **Snapdragons**

Amidst a grotesque variety of people drinking themselves out of their misery, Will raises the glass to his lips, letting the sweet brandy pump down into his throat and through his bloodstream. What a _buzz_. It is an aphrodisiac, he decides, and he swallows another throatful of the poison to prove a point to himself.

It is his fourth drink. He has never been able to handle his liquor.

Five minutes later he is finished and he is something of a minor wreck, with head wrapped in the crook of his own arm, hair splayed across the black marble bar—he has taken refuge in his own hold, has placed his head down on the flat surface. Someone is murmuring quietly: "No, no, no…"

It is him, he realizes. The murmuring is his own.

"Mr. Graham?"

Above him, when he raises his head, is a floating face. How strange. The floating face seems to be able to speak. It has features just like everyone else. When he blinks, his vision focuses a bit and his eyes admit that they have betrayed him, because the floating face is not actually a floating face; it is, in actuality, connected to a neck and the neck is connected to a short little body, a female body. She is leaning, slightly, in order to look at him properly, but at her height she doesn't have to lean all that much.

"Mr. Graham?" Starling repeats, raising an eyebrow.

"He's not home," Will says, gripping his empty glass the way one cradles a precious relic or a newborn baby. "Come back later. Or don't. I don't know when he'll be back."

"I think it's time to get you home," She frowns and he doesn't like it. "Give me your phone. I'll call Dr. Chilton."

"No, you can't. Frederick hates me," Will shakes his head adamantly and raises a finger to make some sort of negative gesture only to forget what that gesture was meant to be and dropping his hand back down on the counter. "I've done something terrible. I met up with an FBI agent. He told me not to go. I didn't listen."

"Shame. Who else can I call?"

"Hannibal Lecter."

"I'm sorry?"

"Wait. No. That won't work. He's not my best friend anymore. I forget that. He was my first best friend, did you know? I don't have many friends—I used to be have something of a mutual relationship with the FBI once, a hundred years ago, but they screwed me over. Take my advice and get out while you can."

"Can I call Dr. Bloom, then?"

Will throws his arms out and places them behind his neck, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to stare at Starling's frustrated face any longer. "'He left this frivolous signature instead.' Frederick said that once. Look at my face. This is my conclusion. Hannibal's conclusion. I'm a living breathing composition and my face is the last note of the symphony. What do you make of that, Starling?"

"I think I need to get you home. Now."

"I've only had four drinks."

"More than plenty for you, I see."

"No, Clarice Starling. You don't know me as well as you think you do. Two can play at mind game analysis."

"Stay put. I'm going to contact someone for you."

"That really isn't necessary, Clarice."

But he snaps out of it before he can protest any further. He holds his head up in earnest now. The apparition of Clarice Starling is gone.

She had other things to do. Her plans had something to do with a person by the name of Noble. The moment she began explaining, he knew it was related to the woes of contemporary romance. Who is he to keep her chasing after such a thing?

A few of the patrons sitting nearest to him had the misfortune of noticing how startled he looked when he shot his head up and realized that there was no young agent talking to him.

There is a thick sheen of sweat on his brow. He doesn't see a clock anywhere, but he knows that it's late.

Heading back to Wolf Trap seems like a very bad idea.

"I'll have another brandy."

 **XIX. Fortune's Fools**

If he were still a good little Southern boy with a vague but definite good little Christian heart, he'd have to count his blessings. Hell, he should count them anyway—agnostic or not.

He makes it home safely, as impossible as that sounds. His foot hits the brake of his beat up ride and he stops in the driveway, parking position a little crooked but at least he and the car are in one piece, even if his mind is not.

There _must_ be something watching over him, he realizes, because when he steps out of the car and begins stalking towards the front door of the domineering Virginia house without bothering to close the car door, his boots slip several inches into frost and ice and snow that, when combined together in a way such as this one, make for dangerous and severe driving conditions. Maybe he has a guardian angel.

His luck ends when he reaches the porch step. Before he has fully processed what is happening, he is nose diving into the wood. Somehow—only his alleged guardian angel must know how—he does not feel the cartilage of his nose breaking or moving out of place when it takes a good portion of the hit for him. What he does feel, however, is the familiar trickling of warm blood gathering the inertia to begin pouring out at full speed. Hell with it, he thinks, and he cups the organ, blood river and all, and looks down as far as he can while still keeping his gaze pointed straight ahead. The porch light is on. He is expected, then, or at least hoped for. There is always the poignant possibility that he is just reading too far into habit. This possibility doesn't taste so nice when his mind chews on it.

With a groan, loud and stretched out with his movement, he manages to stand up almost upright. A few steps is all he needs, and then he is able to balance himself on the door, rummaging through his coat pockets with the hand that is not dripping in the liquid that courses through veins. But he can't quite maneuver in this position and the keys, although he can clearly hear them in his pocket, continuously evade his aching, shaking, ice-ridden fingers. It is not just a snowy night but a night where the wind is at its most vicious, determined to wreak havoc on everything it manages to whip with its fleeting tails. It is quite different from this morning. The eye of the storm has passed. Time for belligerent tidings.

He can't stay out here much longer. Even in this state he is able to recognize most of his limits.

The solution, he decides, is to bang on the door with all the force that his limp muscles will allow him.

"Frederick!" His voice is unbalanced even at this volume. "Frederick! It's me! _Frederick!_ "

It is another full two minutes spent calling out his name before the door opens. In that span of time, Will can hear his dogs barking manically in a way that one might interpret as calling out for him. Then Frederick, bleary eyed and obviously a bit drunk—albeit considerably less than Will—glares at him for all of a handful of meandering seconds before slamming the door shut.

Disbelief becomes Will. "Frederick!"

There is no answer.

Left with no other choice but an unpleasant one, Will lets go of his bleeding nose and reaches into his deep coat pockets once more. Now he is able to grab his keys. The metal clinks loudly in his bloody hand and echoes into the distant, empty, silent darkness. It must be past midnight by now. As there are several locks on his door, it takes a frustrating amount of tries for him to succeed.

Then the locks click and he is met with warmth when he throws the door closed behind him. He leans against the wood of the door and takes a deep breath. Then he locks each individual lock as a result of reflexive habit and muscle memory and stumbles further into the house, which is dark except for the dim leftover light from the porch that is streaming in through the front windows and casting a slight light over the front hallway. He enters the unlit kitchen first, throwing his keys down on the counter basket designated for just that, and stops.

Frederick is there, seated at the table, an empty glass of wine in his eerily still hand and a half full bottle of wine on the kitchen table. He is dressed in his full garb—a dress suit. Except for his feet, which are bare and lacking socks, he looks as if he is ready to take on a room of executives during a monthly board meeting. It is ridiculous. He is histrionic, no doubt. In times of stress he will go to several undesirable lengths to ensure that he is presentable in the event of whatever emergency situation may arise. Even Will isn't always sure what to make of that.

"That was unnecessary," Will says, his words beginning to sound not so much like they were thrown into a cheap blender and mixed together at random only to come out in some strange mush.

He turns around with the full intention to slump his way upstairs and fall into bed in a position that does not threaten him in his state of intoxication and Frederick, in a monotone, says, "It is past three in the morning."

This halts Will. He turns back again. "And?"

"You might have called. Or texted."

"I was occupied."

"Damn it, Will."

Frederick's voice is a precarious line, almost wavering, kept in check by the slight soberness that he is still in possession of. Will turns to look at him, grateful that in the dark the wetness of his eyes is difficult to make out, and then Frederick's face—gently lit by the porch light that hits the window he is sitting by at just the right angle—shifts, as if he is trying to fully comprehend the sight that is Will's face. The marred portion distracts from the recently procured injury but there is no mistaking the abrupt recognition that lights up in Frederick's pupils.

Will tears his gaze away sharply. "Let go of your irrational fears."

"Am I not allowed to worry about you anymore?" Frederick says. He is rigid and tight as he stands up. "Come here, you're too drunk to argue right now. Damn it. What did you do to your face?"

He fully intends to fight back with more bite, but when Frederick's hand falls upon his scarred cheek he loses whatever tooth and snarl he had in him. "Fell on my way to the door. It's nothing."

Frederick's expression is one of blatant disapproval. In one surprisingly swift movement for a slightly buzzed man of forty-four, he flicks the light switch and then the kitchen is draped in a warm light that flickers, only just, before settling.

"Sit," he says firmly, and Will would ignore the demand if it were not for the fact that as Frederick says this he pushes him towards the chair he was occupying moments ago. Fighting back physically is far behind him at this point.

Sleep grips him, slowly. Will's eyelids droop down daringly low as he watches Frederick rummage in several drawers and the cupboard above the oven before frowning and smashing his fist on the counter and stalking out in search of whatever he is searching for, leaving the container of alcohol that he managed to locate behind. It hits Will, before sleep takes over, that they are so terribly ingrained in routine and have no idea what to make of a rupture as deep as this one.

He wakes, startled, when Frederick's hand grips his chin roughly. The older man has pulled another kitchen chair over and positioned it so that they are face to face. Will looks down at him, blinking, and winces when the strong alcohol dabbed on the brown towel makes its first contact with his skin. He hadn't realized until now that there was more to the fall than just the nosebleed—he can feel the various points on his face where he cut himself on the chipped wood.

"It doesn't look like you need stitches," muses Frederick, quietly, engrossed in his task. His touch is gentle and Will finds that his eyelids are falling once more. He has to command himself harshly in order to stay awake and continue staring into those pools of green. "And you don't have any splinters. You were lucky."

A true wonder, Will thinks, is hearing someone vocalize that. Yet he finds him newly bristled by that statement. For a moment he feels inclined to lash out. The feeling subsides, just barely, and instead he closes his eyes once more and pushes into the feel of Frederick's hand gripping his face gently in order to keep his other hand still as he works over the various but small gashes. Instinct tells him what to do next and he raises his hands and opens his eyes and places those raised hands on either side of Frederick's face, refusing to allow the man a moment to think or say anything before he is pulling him forward to kiss him.

Frederick has other ideas and turns his face at the last minute so that Will grazes his dry lips over a recently shaved cheek instead of familiar and warm lips. Hell if that'll stop him. Will works with the sudden change and does not object to kissing the sunken crater that is Frederick's bullet wound cheek. Taking advantage of how still Frederick has become, he creates a slow but burning trail to the man's mouth with his lips and tongue, his fingers making their way down to Frederick's chin at an equally slow rate. He shudders when the pads of Frederick's fingers suddenly arrive on the sides of his neck and stiffly but surely rotate in a soft stroking motion.

With a force driven by the alcohol that is still scorching their throats, their lips meet roughly when Will's mouth arrives at Frederick's mouth. Their tongues, which are usually held at bay while the heat in their bellies is kindled carefully by the growing pressure of lips and hands and other body parts, immediately come together as their mouths slip open of their own accord. Neither forgets what they are angry about. It is translated in the way Frederick's teeth come crashing down on Will's bottom lip with little mercy and the way Will growls in response, curling in closer until his legs are sliding in between Frederick's open legs and jerking his knee up to press momentarily against Frederick's crotch. His hands fall away from Frederick's face and come to lie flat down on the chest covered in dress clothes.

It is Will that ends the moment before it culminates although he doesn't realize it. He means for it to be a pause, a small note, a tiny break. He pulls away, eyes half-lidded, and says, "Let's go on a date. We haven't done that in a long time. We didn't ever think to do it properly. We just fell in together."

They stare at each other and it is as if a bucket of ice cold water was contained in the parting. Frederick's eyes open wider so that he no longer retains that look of rabid lust he often takes on when he and Will and are going at it like this. There is no getting that look back after it is gone. Now Frederick is right back to where he was before, turning his face away as he removes his hands from Will's neck and grabs the alcohol-drenched towel from where he dropped it on his knee.

"And how lucky I am to be in this position."

The snide in Frederick's voice hurts more than he will ever admit. Tightening his mouth, Will resolves to say nothing. He jerks his hands back and sits back against the back of the kitchen chair. If the alcohol was not already flushing his cheeks deep scarlet, this surely would. It is better to sleep it off. They're both drunk. There's no point in fucking when they're more likely to throw fists than kisses.

"Did you drive home in this state?" Frederick asks, adopting his deadpan once more.

The buildup of fury in the pit of his stomach is terrifying. He says, "I allow myself my own actions, as it should be."

"Immaturity is not independence, Will," says Frederick, resuming the wound dressing before he can think better of it. The slow, gentle dabs he was carrying out before become harsher, rough jabs. "I care about you whether you like it or not."

"That's rich." Will knows he is going to regret this. Whatever he says, it will not be the right thing. Not when he's like this. "You don't know how to live for anyone but yourself."

Silence engulfs them and it is a terrible, cruel, lingering silence that is bursting, full past capacity with threat. That isn't an outlandish claim. There is nothing Frederick can argue against that. They will both be perfectly aware of his lie.

The towel grows completely still for several awful seconds before it begins its rotations again. "You're drunk."

"Alcohol is just a liquid."

"Be quiet." It is not a request. It is a candid, frank, solid command. "There. You're done."

Frederick stands and Will rubs at his own face, feeling the rough but old scar tissues of ages past and drifting towards the new row of tiny pin prick cuts.

"How long are you going to stay on this?" Will stays put, staring at Frederick's back from his position. His partner's hand drifts to the counter as if he is trying to find his balance and he probably is doing just that, actually. His cane is nowhere to be seen.

"The question is this: When are you going to stand down?"

"Stand down on what, exactly? Enlighten me."

Frederick turns and grips the counter with his other hand. The look on his face is the eye of the storm and the climax of the hurricane and the false end of a wild rainfall all at once. "He will face a bitter end. This is not your fight anymore and yet you are content to waltz right back into the past and disturb the balance."

"It was one conversation, Frederick. With someone who needed guidance—completely unrelated to the case itself."

"And that is where you begin to plummet!" Will has never seen Frederick so rabid, has never heard such strangled words directed towards him coming from the older man. "You're too good, Will. I can't alter that. I wish I could."

"Is wanting to help someone so wrong in your eyes?"

"When you're being served a hefty serving of nostalgia? Yes, actually."

"You think I want to go back to criminal profiling."

"Do you?"

"Of course not." Will rubs at his brow. He is far too under the influence for this. His hold on the conversation is loosening by the second. "Of course not. No. Do I need an outlet for the turmoil I'm in? Yes. But I don't want to go back. I don't know."

"You will resent me for the rest of your life," says Frederick, and these are words that should come out choked and unsure but his voice is thicker now than ever before, his eyes pinning Will in place. "I know. I want you to continue as you are. You will resent me because you will do that but you will never stop regretting that you did nothing. This is a case you can't let go."

Will's silence must be telling enough. Still, he says, "If you understand, why are you set on preaching this 'we cannot change for him' spiel?"

"Because we can't."

"Hannibal will come back one day. I don't know when and I don't completely understand why, but he will come back. For her, maybe. Believe me when I say our part of the saga is over, Frederick, but if I can do something to minimize the damage in the meantime and when the time comes for him to return, I have to do it."

"You—"

Something starts screaming so suddenly and so unexpectedly that Will jumps up from the chair, flight taking heed before fight, it would seem.

Frederick shifts. The angry demeanor previously set about them both begins to deflate so that now they are both embarrassed, in a way.

"I forgot I put tea on the stove," Frederick says, indignant, and because there is nothing else more logical to do, he hurries over to the screaming pot.

"I'm going," says Will, collecting his thoughts. The argument and the shock factor have sobered him up considerably, although he is well aware that the alcohol is still in his system.

"Fine. Goodnight."

By the time that Will has slipped out the house with all the stealth of a sly burglar in the night, unlocked and entered his car, and begun to pull out of the driveway, Frederick is barely running out the door.

Red-faced and panicked, Frederick cries out a single word.

" _Will_!"

 **XX.** **Plight of the Branded Vigilante**

If journeys end with lovers meeting, they must begin with lovers parting.

The sun has already risen when Will arrives at Alana and Freddie's Baltimore apartment. He parks on the street because all the empty parking spaces are reserved for tenants and the parking spaces designated specifically for guests are all taken as far as he can see and he doesn't think too much walking would do much good when he is in this state.

It is not without shame that he presses his knuckles against their door several times. For one, he is still drunk, if only fractionally. Secondly, he imagines that waking someone up at 5 AM and then barging into their home is not a very accepted social gesture. There is also the problem of what he is going to offer in terms of an explanation.

Sorry, hi. I had a fight with my boyfriend. It wasn't actually a fight though. You know us, though, we're both crazy. Please let me sleep on your sofa.

He winces at the thought.

Freddie opens the door with half-lidded eyes and a mess of nappy curls pulled into a makeshift bun that she must have pulled together in order to look a bit neater when opening the door.

"Oh," she says. "It's you."

Will blinks twice in contemplation. "Were you expecting someone at a time like this?"

"Alana had a family obligation. Her flight gets in early." Freddie looks plenty irked to have to explain this. "Will Graham, why are you here?"

Great question.

"Do you mind if I sleep on your sofa for a few hours?"

Her blue eyes are unamused when she shrugs and shakes her head. "Bit of a tiff in paradise, hmm? It happens to the best of us. Come in. You look like death in the form of bad bedhead."

If he weren't so grateful, he'd be annoyed.

 **XXI.** **Cerberus**

His intention is to get out before Alana arrives. He can omit all he wants from the truth when it comes to Freddie. The situation is different when Alana is involved. Her eyes, alert and sharp, and her stance, poised and healed, are enough to melt him with all the force of a legendary truth elixir.

It is unfortunate, then, that when his eyes open and begin their tedious adjustment to the startlingly bright sunlight that has somehow come into existence while he is sleeping the first thing he sees is Alana. She is seated across from him in a mustard yellow armchair whose color matches the sofa he is on, her face tilted downwards. In her hands is a psychiatric magazine that she is staring at with intensity. Her brown sweater and black slacks are wrinkled with the tired strain of travel. She still teaches and she still sees patients; she went back to it two weeks after the doctor gave her permission to work again. She worked all through the Red Dragon case and has continued since. Her method is simple: Never stop. Live. Pretend nothing happened. Eventually, it might feel as if nothing ever did happen and the entire ordeal was but a fever dream.

Her skills are covetable.

By her is a luggage, clearly still packed. Will stares at her for a moment before her gaze flickers upwards for a second, back down, and then settles on him again.

"You're awake."

"Mmm," he groans out and sits up, forcing the hair out of his face and rubbing at his eyelids until they are sore and red. "What time is it?"

"Ten past one," Alana says. The way she looks at him is comparable to the way a mother looks at a child that has disobeyed their curfew. "There's a glass of water on the coffee table."

And so there is. He reaches forward and retrieves it, gulping the cold liquid down like a man dying in the desert that has just been rescued. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome." Her eyebrows are raised inquisitively and somewhat disappointingly as she looks back down at the shiny magazine paper and closes the pages, setting it down neatly on the right arm of the chair she is sitting in. Now that his groggy vision is clearing, he can see that the look on her face is more amused than anything else. "I know you have the potential to engage in high-risk behaviors, but I didn't pin you as the type to drive under the influence. It's something about the 'Old Southern Boy' aura."

"Did Frederick call you?" Will knows the answer.

"Not me." She shakes her head. "Freddie. Sometime before I got back home. He was in 'quite the conventional frenzy,' to quote her word for word."

"Right." He looks around, slightly dazed. "Where is Freddie now?"

"Out. She's working on a new lead," she says. "I know you're still weary around her. It's just me here. Let it out."

"God." Now Will is the one to shake his head. "What do I do now, Alana?"

"You and I both know that's not my call," says Alana, ever the voice of reason in a world that slams illogical propaganda in every aspect of one's existence.

"Humor me," he proposes, placing the now empty glass back on the coffee table and setting one elbow on his knee, propping his forehead into his cupped hand. "I may not be fit for domesticity. Frederick is set on not settling for anything but. What card do I play here?"

"Well, it depends," she says, in a slow, dragging, careful tone. "How much does this have to do with Hannibal escaping?"

"A lot, in a way, but believe me when I say I'm sure this would have surfaced eventually. This just sped up the inevitable, that's all." Will inhales and exhales haltingly and meets Alana's critical stare. "'Frederick Chilton and Will Graham, together.' That alone asks for a mess."

"He's not the same person," Alana says, shrugging. "Most people are capable of changing."

At that, Will quirks his head, his eyes turning quizzical. "Most people?"

"I've treated several outliers." She doesn't offer anything else in terms of explanation because that is beyond whatever point she is set on making. "I'm not sure if you're one—in this case, at least."

"That's motivating," Will says, gently but not genuinely, turning away from her and looking out the window of the pristine but comfortable third-story apartment.

"Will, I consider you a great friend." Alana leans forward and the action is enough to coax Will into locking eyes with her. "But I'm not going to play therapist for you. Lately there has to be an occasion in order for you to talk to me. I can only guess what's been going on with you."

"I know, I know. In all seriousness," he says, slumping his shoulders, "I don't feel like I'm grounded and I can't explain it."

"You've been receiving treatment for your encephalitis. What do _you_ think could be amiss?"

"I know what my calling is," the words come out stilted, and harsh. "I've been resisting it because I thought it would be for the best, and it was, but it's not anymore. It's about time I admitted it."

"And how do you plan on acting on this resolution?"

"I'll go back to teaching at the academy." Somehow he is able to say this without contemplation. Perhaps, he thinks, he has been contemplating this for a very long time—long before Hannibal Lecter escaped from his cell, even. "In time I'll see about going into criminal profiling again. I won't work directly on Hannibal's case. It's a lost cause. I can't be high profile about this. He's finished with us because he believes us to be perpetually afflicted by his own brand of plague. I can't let inactivity act as my buffer anymore."

Alana, looking proud, smiles with dark red lips reminiscent of Margot Verger's preferred shade and says, "There's your first card. What'll be your next?"

"Frederick," Will says, realizing that his problems are not entirely solved. "I don't know. It's not like we can waltz into a couple's therapy session and ask a licensed professional to help us deal with our problems. This isn't exactly a typical issue, is it?"

"Not even remotely." Alana purses her lips, the warm smile remaining. "You both signed up for this, Will. You both need to work it out."

"I've got a feeling we will," says Will, and he isn't lying about that. "Some distance is necessary, though. At least for the meantime. I have to sort through my thoughts."

"I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks," he says, and then he stands, wincing at the sore joints and muscles that yelp and protest at the action. "I've overstayed my welcome. You've been a great help. I appreciate it."

With that he begins to walk towards the exit, knowing that Alana will not follow him to the door. She does not walk when it is not necessary.

"Just be safe," she says, spontaneously, and Will stops and turns, standing in the doorway. "I'm glad you're making an effort to get past your prolonged healing stage, but don't be rash. You can't act the way you did before. Try not to get too attached."

 _Try not to get too attached to Clarice Starling_ , she must mean, or at least that is what Will tacks onto her final statement.

"I'll do my best," he says. He manages a smile; it is a lopsided thing, kind of lazy and sloppy. Hangovers hit him hard until well past half a day later and he isn't even there yet. "I'm through with mourning and waiting for something to happen."

"Welcome to the club," Alana says.

 **XXII.** **Generic Track Title #22**

Hours pass by like silk and he hardly notices. With his hands on the wheel and his sights set ahead, he drives for hours. When he notices that the gas in the car is running low, he stops and refills the tank. Almost thinking better of it, he buys a cup of cheap gas station coffee. It burns his throat with its warmth and he can't think of a much better feeling, not in that moment. Then he loads himself and his cup of brain medicine into the newly fueled car and starts to drive again.

There is a common misconception about relationships. People who haven't experienced them believe they are exciting.

They are, in a way. But that is hardly their defining factor. Relationships are one quarter exciting, one quarter comfortable, one quarter shocking, and one quarter painful. He'd be glad to explain to anyone why that last tidbit says all anyone needs to know about committing to one person for whatever amount of time the relationship is fated to last.

Especially if they wish to find someone to be with forever.

But isn't it worth it? He almost does not allow himself to touch upon that question. It forces its way, however, and then he wonders. On a highway that seems to go for a thousand miles, enough to span the length of the entire world, he tumbles down asphalt and sets both his mind and his car on automatic.

But isn't it worth it? Frederick is obstinate. He is fickle and crude and learns, every day, something new about caring for someone else that most people already know. Will isn't a picnic either but he has always been loyal to a fault. This character trait of Frederick's is extremely troubling.

But isn't it worth it? Frederick is awful and pigheaded. He isn't—he isn't _not_ loyal, though, not really. He is soft underneath Will's hands and the scent of him is enough to drive Will mad for the entire day. He smiles and Will's entire world is suddenly lit up and everything that has never made sense makes sense. He wraps his arms around Will from behind when Will has to take a moment to go outside and just breathe and revel in the shocking thing that is life. He wrinkles his nose when one of the dogs licks his hand but then the same wrinkled nose turns into a soft crinkle and he pets the soft head of whichever animal has decided to give him attention and it makes Will's heart swell to hear him talking to the dogs when he thinks Will isn't around to hear. He sings to himself and will swear to the ends of the earth that he has never done such a thing in his entire life. But isn't it worth it? He is indifferent in the face of destruction after seeing the effects of standing like iron against such destruction but Will, being one to let destruction taint him in all sorts of ways, is in constant need of balance and Frederick, for all his faults and various perks besides those faults, does offer him balance. But isn't it worth it? They love each other. Above all else, they are in love. They love each other. Isn't that worth it?

That's a good enough reason to take a chance.

 **XXIII.** **Cry 'Peace!' and let rest the dogs of war.**

Winston, with the rest of the pack in tow, tumbles out of the front door to greet Will as he trudges towards the house. He strokes nine furry heads interchangeably. They are all crying for attention and a few of them resort to lapping his hand with their rough tongues in order to get it and Will finds that he is laughing despite himself as they all crowd around him.

"You're home."

Will looks up and catches Frederick's green eyes staring at him as desolately as the dogs looked at him when they trotted out of the house at an alarming speed of desperation. The dogs, in that moment, act as a sort of buffer between whatever volatile eruptions might occur as a result of sudden interaction, their spirits rising now that Will has returned to them, although he was really only gone for a day. It is 7 AM and Will is surprised to see that Frederick is up this early until he realizes that the possibility of Frederick having slept much at all is very slim, judging from the dark circles growing underneath his eyes—the dark circles that they both planted the seeds for and then watered. Underneath Will's blue eyes are similar facial adornments.

"I am."

The beginnings of resolution resonate loudly in those four words, they reverberate with a considerable amount of vigor that highlights the morose air still lingering in heavy wisps but also promises to provide a foolproof cure for this deformity that has grown, unwanted, in large clumps.

There is little conviction in the way that Will treads forward. It is time to put down the weapons. With this cue, the dogs rush past him and back into the house, spreading along the way so that two of them—Winston and Ash, a little gray mutt with a fierce bark when he is upset—are left lingering next to Frederick on the porch.

"We're embarrassingly terrible at this," says Frederick when Will reaches the raised platform and stops before him. He is wearing a sweater of Will's that is slightly snug on him but longer than all of his own clothes. It's not even an old sweater. It is a perfectly nice new sweater that Will purchased two months ago. Frederick's wardrobe borrowing has no boundaries. There is dog hair on both of their slacks.

Without pause, he continues and says, "When I found out you were safe I resolved to pack my things and leave for a long time. That resolution lasted all of ten minutes before I found myself sitting on the couch and deciding to wait until you showed up again. And here you are."

Since they're jumping headfirst into the honesty game, Will says, after taking a deep breath and processing Frederick's words, "I almost didn't turn around. I got to the state limits before I really started to think about where to go."

Frederick's gaze flickers. "What conclusion did you reach?"

It comes to Will's attention that just because he is here physically does not mean that Frederick truly believes him to be here in the more sentimental sense of the concept.

"It wasn't altogether instantaneous," says Will, avoiding Frederick's careful and scrutinizing stare. "Ultimately I decided I wanted you. That's all—well, no. I need you. There. That's all."

Frederick is the one to look away as Will finds the courage to look at him again but he can see, clearly, that the man's pupils are blown out, bouffant against his green irises.

"Good," says Frederick. "I'm glad."

It's such a perfectly Frederick Chilton thing to say that Will can abruptly breathe again, his lungs taking in a generous amount of air and graciously thanking him with the flood of optimism that comes with it. This isn't merely the starting point of a monstrous, doomed climax. They are on the way to alleviation.

"Are you going to invite me in?" Will quirks up an inquisitive eyebrow like an inquisitive teenager on their first date.

The corner of Frederick's mouth twitches and there is just the smallest hint of amusement engraved into that twitch.

"Do come in, Will Graham," he says. His tone sparks reminders of his days as the director of a birthplace for death. With a slight flourish, he steps back and holds his arm out to point at the door.

But neither of them make to enter. Instead they continue as they are, face to face, finally daring to breathe but wondering when they will have to stop again, if ever.

"I'm guilty if I'm idle," says Will. It won't do to halt with their tendency towards honesty.

"In that case," says Frederick, straightening, "I am guilty by default if I force you to be idle."

"I can't refute that."

"No, I'd imagine not."

"What's the verdict?" Normally he would have at least some semblance of a plan. This has spun out of his control, however. All they can do is play it by ear and hope for the best outcome.

"I wasn't built to be a savior, Will," he says, his brow knotting together.

"I'm not asking you to be one." Will's hand involuntary twitches in his coat pocket as if it remembers the ghost of a familiar touch and is reaching out for it. "I'm asking you to stick it out with me through thick and thin and whatever may come."

With visible reluctance, Frederick says, "What will become of us if whatever may come becomes too much?"

"Seeing the future isn't my specialty," says Will. "I can analyze the past, however, and we've done right so far."

"We have, haven't we?"

"We'll continue doing so."

"You've tainted me, Will Graham," says Frederick, his eyes narrowing somewhat accusatorily. "Two years ago I'd have never compromised. Now I'm standing here bargaining to win you back."

"That implies that you lost me somehow," says Will, raising an eyebrow. He takes his left hand out of his pocket, almost reaches out, thinks better of it and then replaces it. "There were a lot of things on my mind. I needed space."

"There are always a lot of things on your mind." A particularly harsh breeze whips a strand of loose hair into Will's face and it does not go unnoticed by Will that Frederick's left hand, static at his side, flinches a few centimeters in reaction before settling. Even now they are orbiting towards each other. "That's your trademark."

Will crinkles his nose, then tilts his head to the side slightly and comes to terms. "Debatable, but I'll accept that."

"Fine," and with that, Frederick holds a hand out, the hard look on his face still set in place. His hand flexes, still indecisive, before he holds it out. "Damn you. I have no idea what you're getting yourself into anymore but I trust that you know what you're doing, if only fractionally."

"I'm aware of my limits now," says Will, taking Frederick's hand with both of his and enclosing it within a small cave that his fingers and palms form. "And if I ever lose sight of them, I have you to reign me in."

Swallowing hard, Frederick closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You say that as if I'm any more talented than you are when it comes to refraining from crossing limits."

"Not all limits are meant to be never crossed," says Will. "We'll figure out the right ones to disregard."

At that, the corners of Frederick's lips turn upwards.

With the barriers finally blasted down with the ammunition of their reconcilement, Will completes the orbit and leans forward to press his lips to Frederick's brow. With that movement he releases the hold that his right hand has on Frederick's hand and places it on the back of Frederick's head, fingers splayed out gently, allowing his left hand to twine into a comfortable knot with Frederick's hand.

"Lord help us both," Frederick says.

 **XXIV. Where Sun Meets Sky**

"There are countless opinions regarding the psyche of Dr. Hannibal Lecter," Clarice Starling says, her voice projecting across the full room, her eyes shiny in the bright lights on the ceiling. Her gaze spans the room as she finishes up the brief monologue. "No single one has been deemed correct yet. You wish to know what diagnosis he received, why, and how. The answer, overall, is that there will never be one. We may never know more beyond the validity of his insanity plea. As for his motive, the situation is similar. He was a picky eater. His victims, for the most part, were people he deemed 'rude' by his own standards. What motivates people to become cannibals? As far as we know, he just happened to have unorthodox preferences."

She looks over at Will. It is a cue. The answer is done. Time to move on.

He says, "We have time for one more question. Who'll have it?"

Will looks around the classroom expectantly, wilting when he sees the exorbitant amount of hands that go up in response to that. Going with his gut, he points at a girl with dark braided hair who sits in the fourth row to the front in the left of the room.

"Miss Henson?"

The girl, Katherine Henson—she goes by simply 'Kat'—puts her hand down and manages not to look smug at the blatant envy of her fellow classmates. She clears her throat before speaking and gently tugs at the collar of her white dress shirt.

"Agent Starling," Kat begins, "can you tell us how Hannibal Lecter knew so much about Jame Gumb?"

Clarice, who is standing in the center of the classroom, bites her bottom lip almost unnoticeably in thought. "Jame Gumb was the former lover of a man that Dr. Lecter treated several years before his incarceration. This patient had several things to say about Jame Gumb while being treated and Dr. Lecter has an extraordinary memory."

"You might've asked something _useful_ ," scolds a sour-faced girl seated to the left of Kat, her whisper loud enough to be heard by almost all, and all the same Kat is so utterly unfazed by this criticism that she does not react at all. She simply continues beaming, visibly pleased.

"Thank you, Agent Starling," says Will, swiftly walking to the center of the room to stand next to the woman before the class can erupt into unruliness. He glances at the clock, which indicates that there is only one minute left before he must dismiss the class. "That's all, everyone. With this, we're wrapping up our study on the Chesapeake Ripper. We're past the gritty subjects. Tomorrow we'll discuss the nuances of interpreting evidence. Class is dismissed. Don't bother Agent Starling on your way out."

As a result of an anomaly of a miracle, the students take heed of his demand. This does not mean that they do not gawk at Starling as they shuffle out gradually. A few of them—two twin boys with brunet hair, a short girl with startlingly hazel eyes—linger precariously as if they are contemplating ignoring his instruction—before they turn to leave. At the last minute, the girl turns around before reaching the door and stumbles back, almost dropping the notebook she is holding. She straightens herself out and assumes a confident stance when she approaches Starling, holding her head up high and taking a deep but subtle breath.

"I'm sorry, professor," she says in a rush, "but I just have to say: Agent Starling, you've served as a huge inspiration for me."

Starling glances at Will and quirks her eyebrow in a manner that he can't quite interpret. Then she looks at the girl, who stands at her same height, and says, "Well, thank you. What an honor."

"You've just done so much and you're hardly older than me," the girl says, still allowing her words to tumble down like they're rolling on a hill at a million miles per hour. All the same, the way she manages to maintain an air of reserve despite her erratic admiration is altogether impressive. "You're a real inspiration for all of us here at the academy."

"I'm sure you'll become your own inspiration in due time," Starling says. She speaks in such a blatantly faux voice. Will almost laughs as he turns away and decides to let the conversation play out. He makes his way to his desk with the intention of packing up.

The girls lets out a high giggle. "Oh, maybe. But you're our motivation _now_. I have to hurry to get to my gun training session. It's been such a privilege to speak with you."

"Likewise," says Starling. "You'd best hurry before you're marked late."

"Right," and with that the girl begins to head out, grinning widely and waving off with a cheery, "Thank you!"

As the room becomes empty save for Will and Starling, she shakes her head and says, with a bewildered twang tinting her voice, "It's strange. I was in their position not long ago."

"This is heroism to them," Will says, gathering the stack of paperwork on his desk and placing it in his briefcase. "They'll learn soon enough that this is just a job."

Will looks back at Starling, coat hanging over his arm and briefcase in his hand and ready for departure only to see that her eyes are narrowed at him sardonically.

"'Just a job,' then?" Now she raises an eyebrow. All that's left for her to do is cross her arms, Will thinks, and she will be the perfect picture of a challenge daring all to take it on.

"An obligation, then," says Will, knowing all too well that he is kidding no one, not even himself. "At any rate, you're good at playing the part. Do you practice what to say or does it come naturally?"

"I had to catch on quickly," Starling says, shrugging, "what with all those interviews and interrogations and mothers on the street. You know."

He does.

There are other things to address, though. With slight reluctance on his part, he asks, "How's that Verger lead looking?"

She clenches her lips together tightly and tilts her head to the side, mulling over it before she decides to say, "Vaguely promising."

"Good," says Will, and he repressed a flood of pride. "That's good. Tread carefully with those two. Margot especially."

"I'll make sure of it," she says, and her eyes flicker towards the door. "I should get going. You sure you don't want to follow up on the Verger lead yourself?"

A part of him shouts _I do_ without a second thought; it lurches forward with a strong sense of identity and practically forces its way out of his throat before he comprehends the larger part. He's a behind-the-scenes act now. There will never be a way around that. Hannibal Lecter has casted a new martyr in the leading role.

"That's alright," he says, falling into step with her as they both exit the classroom. He stops and fishes a key out of his trouser pocket in order to lock the door. "I've got faith in your abilities, agent. Thank you for taking the time to participate in my lecture. They always want to know more about him. They just know not to interrogate me."

"I appreciate the chance to do something that lets me breathe for a minute," she says, brushing a stray curl out of her hair as they stride down the hall of the academy. "Inquisitive FBI trainees? I can handle that. Faceless men with a dubious criminal record? I can handle that, just a little less gladly."

That makes the corner of his mouth quirk up. They stop at the end of the hall because they are both bound towards opposite directions and stand face to face.

"As always," Will says, "it has been a pleasure, Agent Starling."

"Likewise, Mr. Graham."

They share a firm handshake that says nothing more than business. In another universe altogether, or perhaps even in another lifetime shifted a few years away from now, Will believes they would be good friends. Great friends, even. But there is no getting around the idea that two negatives of the same ilk will always repel if they get too close, and Starling has already seen enough of Will's vulnerable edges as it is. He will stay here and do what it is he does best: Offer insight, inspire youth, save lives when he can. The frontlines are done with him. This is Starling's stage now.

"Good luck," he says.

"Luck is an unreliable resource," she says, a mild spark in her eye. He is almost sorry to see her go.

As he exits the building in pursuit of the parking lot and his old busted-up car, he glances at himself in one of the reflective glass windows on the side of the academy building nearest the parking lot and is surprised by what he sees. He is the very image of scholarly with his glasses hanging low on his nose, his eyes looking a bit more alive than they've looked in some time but still admittedly tired, his light brown blazer with the dark brown elbow patches fitted over his slumped shoulders.

The sound of his phone ringing obnoxiously from his pocket is enough to break him out of the moment's reverie. He resumes his stride towards the car, answering the call when he sees who it is.

"Hi, Frederick."

"I'm in need of dire assistance, Will."

A surge of ugly panic furls up within Will. He stops dead in his tracks, feeling cold. "What's happening?"

His voice must be telling because there is an almost tangible pause on the other line before Frederick, sounding weary, says, "Nothing dangerous, don't worry."

Melodramatic fool, Will thinks fondly. For the second time, he continues on his way. "What happened, then?"

"Well," says Frederick, slightly muffled. He must have looked away from the phone for some reason. "I found a dog."

Of all the things he might have expected, he certainly did not expect that. "A dog?"

"Yes," says Frederick. "A dog. I was on my way home from a home visit with a patient. It isn't fleeing but I can't seem to be able to convince it to get into the car. I thought another dog would please you but now the surprise has been ruined. Surprise."

"I appreciate the thought."

"That was the plan. I was waiting to call until your class was over. I'm ten minutes from Wolf Trap."

"I'll be there in twenty-five minutes," Will says as he fumbles to open his car with one hand by sliding the handle of his briefcase onto his wrist.

"Thank you. I will be here. By the side of the road. All alone. With a dog."

A grand grin grows on Will's face, he can't help it. These are the little evidences that indicate to him just how far they really have come. Maybe the allure is that it shouldn't have happened. Maybe the allure is that Will Graham should have killed his worth searching for a cannibal and Frederick Chilton should have driven himself into the ground trying to get revenge.

"I love you," Will says.

And who'd have known?

He can almost make out the sound of unbelieving eyes rolling in their sockets before a reply comes back to him: "Make what you will of the fact that I pulled over to the side of the road to claim a stray dog."

If this is their fate even with the alterations they have forced upon it because in the end neither of them are apt to accept everything that is thrown at them without a fight, then so be it.

Nobody's complaining.

 **XXV.** **Church Crimes**

The problem with the divine is its immortality.

How can a fallen angel be expected to give up its life if it has already grown so used to laying its slender fingers on any and all that answer to its beckon? If God is looking to put an end to the fallen angel, then God will have no luck. Fallen angels do not answer to grace or to glory or to holiness. They answer only to themselves.

Sometimes they answer to a starling blown into its path.

Or perhaps the starling finds itself there of its own accord, in the end.

Ultimately, a fallen angel can only be expected to play a melody it orchestrated itself. There is nothing anyone can do about that. Even the strongest martyrs, in the end, fall victim to death.

Grief has an expiration date. It ends abruptly or slowly but never not at all. The sole fault of the fallen angel was its need to hone in on the weakness of humanity in order to plot their desolation. Don't misinterpret the angel—beauty and kindness and grace have also been necessary elements of his time on earth thus far. The fallen angel, unfortunately, thought so much of its own strength that it forgot to fully analyze the possibility of a solid counter to the fragility of humans:

Alright, so settling wasn't the answer. Will Graham was built for more than the life of a farmhouse man with a mass of dogs and a stubborn lover to call his own. People are changeable, too.

(That was also something the fallen angel tended to zero in on.)

Even Frederick Chilton, for all of his efforts to argue against the mechanisms of nature itself, must be mobile. A little bit of Southern Comfort never hurt anyone too badly but sometimes it becomes the right time to end one's own war against the possibility of being more than just a stocky mass of ambition and pride and false entitlement. He's done enough wrong and not quite enough right to balance it out. It's time to work on that.

So the fallen angel will swoop in and take the starling into its clutches only to learn that starlings have talons, too. The fallen angel will attempt to turn the starling into an angel only to end up with a kind of deity that the starling really was all along—a kind of deity the world has yet to see in pure form. This is the inevitable. Not all is set in stone but there are things that the world will never see changed. There is an added permanence applied to love or what can at least resemble love when the two parties are privately in love with the idea that they should not be in love and yet they are.

What will become of Will Graham and Frederick Chilton when the starling runs away with the fallen angel it has fallen in love with despite the odds?

That much, at least, is changeable. Fate works in strange ways.

For now they manage to live their lives well past the first sunrise. The worst has passed, all of it. Will Graham teaches and profiles criminals. He does it for the sake of his own life and the sake of the countless Abigail Hobbs who do not deserve to have their throats twice slit. Frederick Chilton plays at the domestic life, yes, but he also sees a handful of (very difficult, he will tell you) private patients. He does it for the sake of his pride and the sake of not losing sight of gradually healing scars. To a large extent, they do it for each other's sake, as well. They are the largest part of each other's world but to be fair it wouldn't be the healthiest relationship strategy to see each other as the entire world.

Horizons, after all, are infinite.


End file.
